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REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D. 

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ZINZENDORFF 


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NOV    6   1933 


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V 


OTHER  POEMS 


V 

MRS.    L.    H.    SIGOURNEY. 


[second  edition,] 


NE  W.YORK: 

PUBLISHED  BY  LEAVITT,  LORD  &  CO. 
180    Broadway. 

BOSTON: — CROCKER   &   BREWSTER. 

1837. 


[  X 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1835,  by 
Leavitt,  Lorl  &  Co.,  in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the 
Southern  District  of  New- York. 


West  &  Trow,  I'rs. 


PREFACE. 

The  poem  which  enters  into  the  title  of 
this  volume,  owes  its  existence  to  a  recent 
opportunity  of  personal  intercourse  with  that 
sect  of  Christians,  who  acknowledge  Zinzen- 
dorff  as  their  founder;  and  who,  in  their 
labors  of  self-denying  benevolence,  and  their 
avoidance  of  the  slight,  yet  bitter  causes,  of 
controversy,  have  well  preserved  that  sacred 
test  of  discipleship,  "  to  love  one  another." 

Many  of  the  poems,  in  the  present  collec- 
tion, were  suggested  by  the  passing  and  com- 
mon incidents  of  life.  If,  in  their  elements, 
there  is  a  deficiency  of  the  "  wonderful  and 
wild,"  it  is  hoped  they  will  not  be  found  des- 
titute of  that  moral  essence,  which  springs 


6  PREFACE. 

up  as  freshly  in  the  trodden  vale,  as  on  the 
cliff  where  the  cloud  settles. 

Should  it  be  objected  that  too  great  a 
proportion  of  them  are  elegiac,  the  required 
apology  would  fain  clothe  itself  in  the  lan- 
guage of  the  gifted  Lord  Bacon  : — "  If  we 
listen  to  David's  harp,  we  shall  find  as  many 
hearse-like  harmonies,  as  carols;  and  the 
pencil  of  Inspiration  hath  more  labored  to 
describe  the  afflictions  of  Job,  than  the  feli- 
cities of  Solomon." 

jL.    ri.    o. 

Hartford,  Conn.  Sept.  1835. 


. 

' 

• 

CONTENTS. 


ZlNZENDORFF 13 

Niagara*  ...,.,,,. 35 

Death  of  the  Rev.  De.  Cornelius 37 

"The  Lord  is  in  his  holy  temple;— let  all  the  Earth  keep  silence 

before  him'.' 39 

The  Dead  Horseman 40 

The  Tomb  of  Josephine 42 

Joy  ix  believing 45 

Faith 46 

The  Indian's  Welcome. to  the  Pilgrim  Fathebs-  •  •  •  < 47 

Death  among  the  Trees .• 4S 

The  test  of  Life 50 

"  Thy  mercies  are  new  every  morning  and  fresh  every  moment"  •  •  •  •   52 

Funebal  of  Dr.  Mason  F.  Cogswell 53 

Thoughts  fob  Mourners ■ 55 

Meeting  of  the.Susquehannah  with  the  Lackawanna 56 

Poetry ■ • 57 

The  Coming  of  Christ • 58 

On  the  close  of  the  year  1S32 • 59 

Lady  Jane.  Grey •  •  • 63 

Female  Education.-  • • 66 

The  Half-century  Sermon-  •  • 67 

Death  of  the  Wife  of  a  Clergyman,  during  the  Sickness  of  her 

Husband 69 

Agriculture 71 


8  C  ON  T  E  N  TS. 

Death  of  Beda 72 

Missions  to  Africa 74 

The  Ordination 75 

The  Christian  going  Home 77 

Friendship  with  the  Dead 78 

Death  of  the  Rev.  Gordon  Hall 79 

Imprisonment  for  Debt ■ ■ 80 

Sabbath  Evening  in  the  Country 82 

"  Keep  thy  heart  with  all  diligence" 84 

Mistaken  Grief 85 

The  Deaf,  Dumb  and  Blind  Girl  of  the    American  Asylum  at 

Hartford,   Conn 86 

The  Communion 89 

Napoleon's   Epitaph 91 

The  Friends  of  Man 95 

The  Flowers  of  Spring 99 

Death  of  Mrs.  Harriet  W.  L.  Winslow 100 

Establishment  of  a  Female  College  in  New  Grenada,  S.  A««   102 

Lady   Rosse 103 

ThePholas 105 

Death  of  a  Young  Wife 106 

Christian    Hope 10? 

Queen  Elizabeth  and  the  Countess  of  Nottingham 108 

The  Lost    Sister Ill 

Death  of  a  Wife,  during  the  Absence  of  her  Husband 112 

The  Sea-Boy 114 

Christmas  Hymn 116 

"Go  thy  way,  for  this  time" 117 

A  Dream 119 

On  reading  the  Memoirs  of  Mrs.  Judson 123 

The  Sabbath 126 

Burial  of  two  Young  Sisters 127 

V*  Vobis 129 

Bible-Class  in  the  Connecticut  State-Prison 130 

Death  of  a  Young  Lady  at  the  Retreat  for  the  Insane 132 


CONTENTS.  9 

Introduction  to  an  Album.-  •... .,,.,,,,,,, ..   133 

Death  of  a  Son. op.  .the  late  Honorable. Fisher  Ames-  •  • 134 

"They  said  she  was  alone'.'.- ................ ,,,, I35 

Farewell , 137 

On  the  Death  of  a  Lady  at  Havana— whither   she  went  for 

.  her  health ••••  •••••••. —  •- 138 

Death's  Chosen  .Ally ............. 140 

"Is  it.  well. with  .the  child?''-. ......... £42 

The  Babe  bereaved  of  its  Mother 143 

Funeral  in  a  new  Colony-  .......... : f . .   144 

Death  of  the  Rav..  Alfred  Mitchell 146 

"Depart,  Christian   soul". 147 

Death,  of  the  Rev.  W.  C.  Walton ]  48 

"It  is.  finished" 149 

"She  is. not  dead,. but  sleepeth".- •• 150 

The  Journey  with  the  Dead 151 

Prisoners'  Evening  Hymn  •  •  • 152 

The  .Huguenot  Pastor 154 

Home  Missions  ••••;•?••••••••• .- • 156 

"This  is  not  your  rest" •  -  - 156 

On  the  Union  of  Ladies  of  Great-Britain  with  those  of  Ame- 
rica, in  plans  of  Benevolence  for  Africa 157 

Uzziah - ' 159 

"Then  whose  shall  those  things  be  that  thou  hast  provided" 160 

"Redeeming  the  Time"".- 161 

The  Grave ... 162 

On  the  Celebration  of  Washington's  Birth-day  at  Rome 163 

"  O  come,  let  us  walk  in  the  light  of  the  Lord" 165 

The  Daughter..  •  •• 166 

The  First  Morning  of  Spring 169 

The  Soap-bubble ]  70 

"I  have  no  greater  joy,  than  to  see  my  children  walk  in  the  truth"   172 

"To  die  is  Gain".--.-. 173 

The  Rev.  Legh  Richmond  among  the  Ruins  of  Ionia 174 


10  CONTENTS. 

Peace 176 

Lazarus 177 

"  There  go  the  Ships" 178 

"And  David  said,  let  me  now  fall  into  the  hand  of  the  Lord" 179 

Filial  Claims • 180 

Sailor's  Hymn • • 182 

Sunset  on  the  Alleghany 183 

Death  or  a  former  Pupil • 185 

Farewell  op  a  Missionary  to   Africa,  at  the  Grave  of  his 

Wife  and  Child 187 

Expostulation 189 

"i  will  arise  and  go  unto  my  father" 190 

Voice  from  the  Grave  of  a  Sunday-school  Teacher 191 

"  He  gathered  the  lambs  with  his  arms" 192 

Religious  Tracts 193 

Education  of  pious  and  indigent  young  Men 194 

Death  of  a  young  Musician 195 

To  the  Evening  Star 196 

The    Dying  Boy 197 

Filial  Grief 199 

"  Trouble  not  Yourselves,  for  his  Life  is  in  Him" 200 

Death  of  Mr.  Oliver  D.  Cooke .....,,   202 

"Let  there  be  Light" 204 

Defection  of  the  Disciples 206 

Death  of  a  Friend 208 

Child  left  in  a  Storm 209 

The   Pestilence 210 

Garafilia    Mohalby 212 

"  The  Son  of  man  is  the  Lord  of  the  Sabbath." 213 

On  seeing  a  Lady's    Gold  Chain  among  the  offerings  at  a 

Temperance   Society 214 

Death  of  an  aged  Man , 215 

"Thy  Will  be  done" 216 

Death  of  Wilberforce 217 


CONTENTS.  11 

The  Christian  Mariner 218 

"I  will  wait  upon  the  Lord,  that  hideth  his  face" 220 

Judge  Trumbull 221 

Prayer 223 

The  Broken  Vase.... 224 

The  Tower  at  Montevideo 227 

Birth-dav  Verses  to  a  little  Girl 228 

Nature'  s  Beauty 230 

Death  of  Dr.  Todd,  Principal  of  the  Retreat  for  the  Insane, 

in  Connecticut 232 

Lafayette 234 

Last  Hours  of   Hon.  William  Wirt 236 

On  reading  the  Description  of  Pomreii 237 

Parting  Hymn  of  Missionaries  to  Buhmah 239 

On  the  Death  of  the    Rev.  Samuel  Green  of  Boston 241 

"  Peace,  I  leave  with  you" 242 

Death  of  a  young  Lady 242 

Appeal  for  Female  Education  in  Greece 243 

The  Western  Emigrant 246 

Farewell  of  the  Soul  to  the  Body 249 

The   Garden 251 

Dreams 253 

The  Grave  of  the  Queen  of  Prussia 255 

The  Muffled  Knocker 257 

The  Death  of  the  Motherless 259 

The  Departure  of  Miss   Hannah  More   from  Barley  Wood, 

April  18,  1828,  at  the  age  of  Eighty-three 260 

The  Jews 263 

Foreign  Missions 264 

Seamen 265 

Cry  of  the  Cobannas 266 

Anacharsis  the  Philosopher 267 

Harvest  Hymn 268 

"The  Dead  praise  not  the  Lord".  ••• 269 


12  CONTENTS. 

Moravian  Missions  to  Greenland.  . » ■. 270 

Funeral  at  Sea.. , 272 

"  Hinder  Them  not.  ........ 274 

Sale  of  Ardent  Spirits  by  Christians 275 

Hymn  for  a  Charitable  Association > 277 

Thoughts~on  returning  from  Church... 278 

On  beading  the  "Remains"  of  Rev.  Edmund  D.  Griffin 279 

The  Bride . 281 

Departure  of  Missionaries  for  Ceylon 282 

Christian  Settlements  in  Africa 283 

Death 284 

Midnight  Music 286 

Forbearance  with  Frailty 287 

Burial  of  Ashman,  at  New  Haven,  Aug.  1828 288 

Tomb  of  a  young  Friend  at  Mount  Auburn 290 

Nahant ... 291 

The  Conquerors  of  Spain 292 

The  New  Zealand   Missionary * 295 

"  Go  tell  Peter" 297 

Felicia  Hem  an  s 298 


- 


ZINZENDORFF. 

Twas  Summer  in  Wyoming. — 

Through  the  breast 
Of  that  fair  vale,  the  Susquehannah  roam'd, 
Wearing  its  robe  of  silver,  like  a  bride. 
Now,  with  a  noiseless  current,  gliding  slow 
'Mid  the  rich  velvet  of  its  curtaining  banks, 
It  seem'd  to  sleep,— o'ervvearied  with  the  toil 
By  which  its  roughly-guarded  l  pass  was  won  ; — 
Then  hasting  on,  refreshing  and  refresh'd, 
Vaunting  the  glories  of  its  sylvan  home, 
It  spread  a  mirror  to  the  changeful  cloud 
In  chrystal  beauty. — 

From  the  towering  hills 
That  revel  in  the  sunbeams,  or  retire 
Shrouded  in  mist,  the  gazing  traveller  drinks 
Such  deep  delight,  as  only  Nature  gives, 
When  in  her  garb  of  loveliness,  she  mocks 
Pencil,  and  power  of  speech. — Yon  pictur'd  chart 
Of  lawn,  and  stream,  and  mountain's  shadowy  height, 
And  rocks  in  quiet  verdure  meekly  bower'd, 
Rebukes  the  pomp  of  cities,  and  the  strife 
Of  competition,  and  the  lust  of  gold. 
— The  landscape  2  hath  a  legend  :  hurrying  steps 
Of  stately  warriors, — valor,  prompt  and  proud 
To  guard  its  nested  loves, — the  fatal  wile 
2 


14  MRS.    SIGOURNEY'S    POEMS. 

Of  Indian  ambuscade, — the  madden 'd  shout 
Of  massacre, — the  flight  of  timid  forms, 
And  moan  of  sireless  orphans. 

History's  hand, 
And  minstrel's  art  have  glean'cl  these  glowing  tints, 
And  wrought  them  deftly,  like  a  crimson  thread 
Into  their  tissues.     'Tis  not  mine  to  choose 
A  theme  so  bold, — though  I  have  trod  the  turf 
Whose  greenness  told  what  moisture  nourish'd  it, 
And  ponder'd  pensive  o'er  that  monument, 
Where  the  last  relics  3  of  the  fallen  brave 
Were  gathered  by  their  sons.     Yes,  I  have  mus'd 
'Mid  that  enchanted  scenery,  while  the  thrill 
From  kindred  bosoms,  and  the  vision'd  past 
Was  strong  within  my  soul.     Yet,  'tis  not  meet 
That  I  should  tell  of  war,  or  woo  the  tones 
Of  that  high  harp,  which,  struck  in  England's  halls, 
Hath  made  the  name  of  Gertrude,  and  the  lore 
Of  sad  Wyoming's  chivalry,  a  part 
Of  classic  song. 

A  wilder  scene  I  seek, 
Ancient  and  barren,  where  the  red  man  reign'd 
Sole  lord,  before  the  usurping  plough  had  dar'd 
A  trace  of  subjugation,  or  the  eye 
Of  Science,  in  its  darkling  bed  discern'd 
The  slumbering 4  Anthracite,  which  now  doth  draw 
Exploring  thousands  to  its  ebon  throne, 
Like  a  swarth  king  of  Afric.     The  high  arch 
Of  the  cloud-sweeping  forest,  proudly  cast 
A  solemn  shadow,  for  no  sound  of  axe 
Had  taught  the  monarch  Oak  dire  principles 
Of  revolution,  or  brought  down  the  Pine, 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS.  15 

Like  haughty  baron  from  his  castled  height. 

Thus  dwelt  the  kings  of  Europe, — ere  the  voice 

Of  the  crusading  monk,  with  whirlwind  tone 

Did  root  them  from  their  base,  with  all  their  hosts, 

Tossing  the  red-cross  banner  to  the  sky, 

And  pouring  like  a  torrent  o'er  the  wilds 

Of  wondering  Asia. 

The  rude  native  tribes, 
Fast  by  the  borders  of  the  gentle  stream 
Carv'd  out  their  heritage,  with  rival  heart, 
And  hand  uncourtcous.     There  the  Shawanese 
With  surest  arrow  stay'd  the  flying  deer, 
And  the  bold  Delaware  with  giant  arm 
Impell'd  his  swift  canoe.     In  feudal  pride 
Oft  the  fierce  chieftains  led  their  eager  hosts 
To  savage  battle,  or  with  oathless  truce 
Drew  back  in  transient  brotherhood,  the  hordes 
Of  wrathful  warriors.     In  their  cone-roof 'd  homes 
Some  budding  virtues  sprang  as  best  they  might, 
Beneath  the  chill  and  baleful  atmosphere 
Of  savage  life.     The  dusky  mother  prest 
Her  new-born  infant  with  a  rapturous  thrill 
Of  unimagin'd  love,  and  the  glad  sire 
Saw  his  young  boy  with  eager  skill  maintain 
Against  the  opposing  stream  a  venturous  path, 
Or  firmer  knit  his  sinews  in  the  chase. 
The  lip  of  woman  told  the  treasur'd  lore 
Of  other  times,  and  'mid  the  tasks  and  toils 
Of  vassalage  kept  bright  the  historic  chain, 
As  the  sad  vestal  nurs'd  the  sacred  fire. 
— The  young  kept  silence,  while  the  old  man  spake, 
And  bowing  down  before  the  hoary  head, 


16  MRS.    SIGOURNEY's   POEMS. 

Rever'd  the  wisdom  that  doth  wait  on  time. 
— But  still  the  cloud  of  paganism  did  blight 
The  blossom  of  their  virtues,  brooding  dark 
With  raven  pinion  o'er  the  gloomy  soul. 

1  said  that  Summer  glow'd. — 

And  with  her  came 
A  white-brow'd 5  stranger.     Open  as  the  day- 
Was  his  fair,  noble  forehead,  and  his  voice 
In  its  sweet  intonations,  threw  a  charm 
O'er  rudest  spirits.     Not  with  more  surprise 
Gaz'd  the  stern  Druid,  'mid  his  mystic  rites, 
On  good  Augustine,  preaching  words  of  peace, 
What  time  with  hatred  fierce  and  unsubdued, 
The  woad-stain'd  Briton  in  his  wattled 6  boat 
Quail'd  'neath  the  glance  of  Rome. 

Thus  fixed  the  eye 
Of  jealous  chieftains  and  their  wandering  clans 
On  Zinzendorff. — Sought  he  to  grasp  their  lands  1 
To  search  for  gold  1    to  found  a  mystic  throne 
Of  dangerous  power  ?     Where  the  red  council-fire 
Disturb'd  the  trance  of  midnight, — long  they  sate 
Weighing  his  purpose  with  a  cautious  tone 
In  grave  debate.     For  scarce  they  deem'd  it  truth 
That  from  a  happy  home,  o'er  Ocean's  wave, 
He  thus  should  come  to  teach  a  race  unknown 
Of  joys  beyond  the  tomb.     Their  fetter'd  minds 
Still  blindly  ruled  by  groping  ignorance, 
Sank  at  the  threshhold  of  such  bold  belief, 
And  with  the  skeptic  doubt  of  modern  times* 
The  Missionary  scann'd. 

Yet  some  there  were 
Who  listen'd  spell-bound  to  his  charmed  words  ; 


MRS.    SIGOUBNEY'S   POEMS.  17 

The  sick  man  drew  them  as  the  dew  of  heaven 
Into  his  fever'd  bosom,  while  the  hymn 
That  swell'd  melodious  o'er  the  open  grave, 
Sooth'd  the  sad  mourner  'mid  his  heathen  woe. 
Young  children  gather'd  at  his  beaming  smile, 
And  learn'd  the  name  of  Jesus, — pressing  close 
To  touch  his  garments,  or  to  feel  his  hand 
Resting  upon  their  heads.     Such  power  hath  love 
O'er  sweet  simplicity,  ere  Sin  hath  taught 
Suspicion's  lesson. 

By  the  bed  of  death 
The  Teacher  stood,  where  the  grim  Sachem  fear'd 
By  many  tribes,  found  in  his  latest  foe 
The  first  that  conquer'd  him.     The  man  of  might 
Stretch'd  on  his  couch  of  skins,  supinely  lay, 
With  every  nerve  unstrung.     Around  his  hut, 
The  deer's  proud  antler,  and  the  wampum  belt 
Dispos'd  'mid  gaudy  implements  of  war, 
The  well-fill'd  quiver,  and  the  feathery  plume, 
Show'd  that  pre-eminence  which  rank  doth  claim 
'Mid  penury  and  pain.     One  youthful  form, 
A  lonely  daughter,  last  of  all  his  flock, 
Tended  his  dying  pillow,  with  the  care 
Of  native  tenderness.     The  water-gourd 
She  wept  as  he  rejected, — and  her  eye 
Gleam'd  through  its  tears  so  beautiful,  that  none 
Who  gazed  remembered  that  her  cheek  was  dark. 
She  was  a  gentle  creature,  and  she  rose 
Parting  the  raven  tresses  from  her  brow, 
And  bowing  down  with  reverent  grace,  to  meet 
The  Man  of  God. 

He  mark'd  the  mortal  strife 
2* 


18  MRS.    SIGOURNEv's   POEMS. 

Draw  near  its  close.     Cold  dews  of  suffering  stood 

Upon  the  rigid  temples,  and  the  breath 

Was  like  that  sob,  with  which  the  swimmer  breasts 

The  surge  that  whelms  him.     Then,  a  tone  subdued 

And  tremulous  with  pity  and  with  zeal, 

Breath'd  in  his  ear. 

"  Chieftain !  the  ice  of  death 
Is  in  thy  breast.     Doth  aught  disturb  the  soul, 
Or  make  its  passage  fearful  V 

— No  reply, 
Save  one  impatient  gesture  from  the  hand 
That  seemed  a  skeleton's. 

"  Hast  thou  not  been 
A  man  of  blood  1 — Repent  thee  !     Speak  the  name 
Of  Jesus  the  Redeemer.     Let  thy  thought 
Ascend  with  mine,  my  brother,  while  I  plead 
Acceptance  for  thee  at  the  gate  of  heaven, 
Through  Him,  who  from  the  tyrant  Death  did  wrest 
The  victory." 

But  then  a  hollow  voice 
Brake  forth,  like  smother'd  thunders. 

"  Go  thy  way 
Thou  Christian  Teacher !  I  can  deal  with  Death 
Alone.     Hence  !  Hence  !  I  charge  thee  bring  no  soul 
That  thou  hast  nurtur'd  to  the  red  man's  heaven, 
For  we  will  drive  it  thence.     My  glorious  sires  !" 
— And  then  he  murmur'd  what  they  could  not  hear, 
But  ever  and  anon,  he  fiercely  rais'd 
His  clenching  hand  as  in  the  battle  strife, 
To  draw  the  arrow  to  its  utmost  head, 
Or  sway  the  cleaving  hatchet.     All  in  vain  ; 
Like  Priam's  dart  the  airy  weapon  fell, 


MRS.    SIGOL'KNEV's    POEMS.  19 

For  cold  paralysis  did  work  within 
The  citadel  of  life. 

There  was  a  pause 
Of  awful  stillness.     Had  the  flickering  lamp 
Fail'd  in  that  passion-gust  1 

The  daughter  bent 
In  agonizing  dread,  and  wiped  the  dew 
That  stood  like  drops  of  rain,  and  laid  her  cheek 
Close  by  the  ghastly  sleeper, — hoping  still 
To  hush  hnn  gently  to  a  peaceful  dream, 
As  the  meek  mother  lulls  her  troubled  child. 
But  when  no  more  the  gasp,  or  fitful  sigh 
Stole  on  her,  breathless  listening, — starting  up, 
She  threw  the  casement  higher,  and  the  breeze 
Blew  freshly  o'er  his  brow,  while  grey-rob'd  dawn 
Did  faintly  struggle  with  the  stars,  to  force 
Her  way,  the  gentle  minister  of  peace 
To  an  ungrateful  world.     Then  first  the  pang 
Of  poignant  grief  that  rives  the  proudest  soul 
Came  over  that  young  creature,  and  she  cried 
With  a  loud  voice  of  misery,  to  him 
Who  pray'd  the  Christian's  prayer,  that  he  would  lift 
The  voice  of  supplication  for  her  sire, 
Ere  it  should  be  too  late.     There  was  a  sound 
From  that  low  couch, — a  sudden  gush  of  breath, 
As  if  the  grave  did  chafe  with  prison'd  winds, 
Driving  them  thence.     The  eye  unsealing,  flash'd 
Strange  fires,  like  frost-bound  Hecla.     Anger  rush'd 
In  furious  storm-cloud  o'er  that  tortur'd  brow, 
Making  Death  horrible. 

"  And  art  thou  false, 
False  to  our  own  Great  Spirit !     Thou,  the  last 


20  MRS-  sigourney's  poemb. 

Of  all  my  nested  warblers, — dost  thou  turn, 

And  pluck  the  wing  that  shelter'd  thee  1     I  would 

That  He  who  hurls  the  lightning  !" but  the  curse 

Froze  on  his  lip,  and  with  a  hideous  groan 

As  if  in  combat  with  some  giant-foe, 

Who  to  his  lion  heart  had  found  the  way, 

He  wrestled  and  fell  back,  to  rise  no  more. 

— Then  rose  the  sob  of  weeping,  and  the  prayer 

Of  earnest  faith.     It  was  a  fearful  scene, — 

Death,  and  young  sorrow,  and  unearthly  zeal, 

Dividing  that  low  mansion.     But  the  space 

Was  brief  for  such  companionship.     The  tramp, 

And  heavy  tread  of  many  hasting  feet 

Came  echoing  o'er  the  threshhold  ;  for  the  throng 

Who  held  their  Sachem  as  a  god,  did  shrink 

To  see  him  die.     But  now  the  deed  was  done, 

And  the  stern  Chief  lay  as  the  powerless  babe, 

They  who  would  tremble  at  his  awful  glance, 

And  do  his  bidding  with  a  spaniel's  dread, 

Now  casting  off  their  abject  terror,  stood 

Closest  beside  him.     From  the  weaker  sex 

Burst  forth  a  tide  of  sympathy,  to  soothe 

The  orphan  maid  :  for  pity  cannot  quit 

Her  hold  on  woman ,  whatsoe'er  her  garb 

Or  lineament  may  be,  howe'er  the  sun 

Hath  burnt  dark  tints  upon  her,  or  the  yoke 

Of  vassalage  and  scorn  have  bow'd  her  low, 

Still  doth  her  spirit  at  another's  pain 

Vibrate,  as  the  swept  lyre. 

'Twas  sad  to  see 
Those  hoary  elders  pacing  one  by  one, 
So  slow  and  mournful  from  their  fallen  chief, 


MBS.    SIGGUBXEy's    POEMS.  21 

And  ranging-  in  mute  circle  on  the  lawn 
Beside  his  dwelling.     There  a  towering  line 
Of  warriors  gather'd,  such  as  ne'er  had  blench'd 
To  follow  where  he  pointed,  tho'  the  earth 
Were  saturate  with  blood,  or  the  keen  lance 
Of  ambush  glitter'd  thro'  the  quivering  leaves. 
Now,  sad  of  heart,  with  heads  declin'd  they  stood, 
As  men  who  lose  the  battle.     Flocking  still, 
Came  mothers  with  their  sons.     A  nation  mourn'd 
Like  one  vast  family.     No  word  was  spoke, 
As  when  the  friends  of  desolated  Job, 
Finding  the  line  of  language  all  too  short 
To  fathom  woe  like  his,  sublimely  paid 
That  highest  homage  at  the  throne  of  Grief, 
Deep  silence. 

Now  the  infant  morning  rais'd 
Her  rosy  eyelids.     But  no  soft  breeze  mov'd 
The  forest  lords  to  shake  the  dews  of  sleep 
From  their  green  coronals. 

The  curtaining  mist 
Hung  o'er  the  quiet  river,  and  it  seem'd 
That  Nature  found  the  summer  night  so  sweet, 
That  'mid  the  stillness  of  her  deep  repose 
She  shunn'd  the  wakening  of  the  King  of  Day. 
— But  there,  beneath  a  broad  and  branching  Elm 
Stood  forth  the  holy  man,  in  act  to  speak. 
There  was  a  calmness  on  his  pallid  brow, 
That  told  of  heaven.     His  stainless  life  had  flow'd 
Pure  as  his  creed.     Had  the  whole  warring  world 
With  passion  quaked,  he  would  have  made  himself 
A  green  oasis  'mid  the  strife  of  tongues, 
And  there  have  dwelt  secure, 


22  MRS.    SIGOUBNEY'S    POEMS. 

Strong  words,  whose  power 
Can  tame  the  sinful  heart,  he  boldly  spake, 
And  show'd  to  penitence,  the  faith  which  heals 
The  barb  of  anguish  and  the  sting  of  death, 
And  rooting  by  the  lowly  cross,  sheds  forth 
Such  fragrance  as  immortal  spirits  breathe 
In  cloudless  climes.     The  Gospel's  glorious  hope, 
Its  rule  of  purity,  its  eye  of  prayer, 
Its  foot  of  firmness  on  temptation's  steep, 
Its  bark  that  fails  not  'mid  the  storm  of  death, 
He  spread  before  them,  and  with  gentlest  tone, 
Such  as  a  brother  to  his  sister  breathes, 
His  little  sister,  simple  and  untaught, 
Did  urge  them  to  the  shelter  of  that  ark 
Which  rides  the  wrathful  deluge. 

Not  a  breath 
Disturb'd  the  tide  of  eloquence.     So  fix'd 
Were  that  rude  auditory,  it  would  seem 
Almost  as  if  a  nation  had  become 
Bronz'd  into  statues.     Now  and  then  a  sigh, 
The  unbidden  messenger  of  thought  profound, 
Parted  the  lip  ;  or  some  barbarian  brow 
Contracted  closer  in  a  haughty  frown, 
As  scowl'd  the  cynic,  'mid  his  idol-fanes, 
When  on  Mars-Hill  the  inspired  Apostle  preach'd 
Jesus  of  Nazareth. 

The  furrow 'd  soil 
Was  soft  with  sorrow.     So  the  rain  of  heaven 
Sank  deeper  in.     What  seed  was  sown  that  hour, 
Eternity  can  tell.     Brief  human  breath 
Pour'd  on  the  wind-harp  of  a  hallow'd  lip, 
What  marvels  hath  it  wrought !  and  stranger  still, 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY's  POEMS.  23 

One  ink-drop  on  a  solitary  thought, 
Hath  stirr'd  the  mind  of  millions. 

Where  a  cliff 
Doth  beetle  rudely  from  the  mountain's  breast, 
And  dripping-  with  a  chilly  moisture,  make 
Perpetual  weeping-, — was  a  lonely  cave 
Rock-ribbed  and  damp. — There  dwelt  an  aged  man, 
Fear'd  as  a  prophet  by  the  unletter'd  race 
Who  sought  his  counsel,  when  some  work  of  guilt 
Did  need  a  helper.     Wondrous  tales  they  told 
Of  dark  communion  with  a  shadowy  world, 
And  of  strange  power  to  rule  the  demon  shapes 
That  shriek 'd  and  mutter'd  in  his  cell,  when  storms 
At  midnight  strove.     Of  his  mysterious  date 
The  living  held  no  record.     Palsying  Age 
The  elastick  foot  enchain'd,  which  erst  would  climb 
The  steep  unwearied — and  the  wither'd  flesh 
Clos'd  round  each  sinew  with  a  mummy's  clasp  ; 
As  if  some  gaunt  and  giant  shape,  embalm'd 
At  Thebes  or  Memphis,  when  the  world  was  young, 
Should  from  its  stain 'd  sarcophagus,  protrude 
The  harden'd  limb,  and  send  a  grating  sound 
From  the  cold,  lungless  breast. 

And  there  he  dwelt, 
Austere, — in  such  drear  hermitage,  as  seem'd 
Most  like  a  tomb,  gleaning  from  roots  and  herbs 
Scant  nutriment.     Fierce  passions,  brooding  dark 
In  solitude  and  abstinence,  had  made 
A  hater  of  mankind.     But  when  he  heard 
Of  the  white  stranger,  with  his  creed  of  love 
Seducing  red  men's  hearts,  hot  seeds  of  wrath 
Smoulder'd  within  his  bosom, — like  a  fire 


24  Mns-    SIGOUHNEV's    POBM8. 

Fed  in  some  charnel  house.     Revenge  he  vow'd, 

And  every  day  was  one  long  troubled  pause 

Of  meditation,  on  that  dire  resolve. 

— Thus  he,  who  taught  to  Earth  the  taste  of  blood, 

Ere  scarce  that  music  of  the  stars  was  hush'd, 

Which  joyous  o'er  creation's  cradle  flow'd, 

Cover'd  the  thought  of  murder  in  his  heart, 

Till  his  red  eye-balls  started,  and  like  flame 

Glar'd  on  his  shepherd-brother,  as  he  led 

On  by  the  living  streams,  his  trusting  flock. 

— So  strong  in  that  misanthrope's  bosom  wrought 

A  frenzied  malice,  that  his  cavern's  bound 

Oft  echoed  to  hoarse  shouts,  as  fancy  drew 

The  image  of  his  enemy,  and  rais'd 

A  mimick  warfare.     Then  uplifting  high 

The  tomahawk,  he  impotently  dream'd 

To  have  his  will, — but  at  each  foii'd  attempt 

Cursing  the  weakness  of  his  blasted  arm, 

He  struck  his  bony  hand  against  his  breast 

In  self-consuming  madness.     Every  night 

Was  one  wild,  tossing  vision, — acting  o'er 

The  deed  of  murder,  with  a  baffled  aim, 

And  deeming  at  each  random  stroke,  the  foe 

Did  multiply  himself. 

At  length,  strong  hate 
Wrought  out  its  likeness  in  the  savage  breast 
Of  three  grim  warriors.     Listening  oft  and  long 
To  his  dire  incantations,  forth  they  went, 
Once,  when  the  pall  of  darkness  veil'd  the  scene, 
To  do  his  purpose.     Keenly  were  they  arm'd, 
And  iniy  fortified  by  every  spell 
Which  that  dire  necromancer  could  devise, 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY'S    POEMS.  25 

To  bind  obedience.     Eagerly  they  sought 
The  abode  of  Zinzendorff.     His  lonely  tent 
Rear'd  its  white  bosom  thro'  embowering  shades, 
As  if  some  remnant  of  the  wintry  snow 
Did  linger  there.     The  earliest  cluster'd  grape 
Was  in  its  purple  flush, — and  twilight's  breath 
Betray'd  a  chill,  prelusive  of  the  sway 
Of  sober  autumn. 

Through  a  narrow  chasm 
In  his  slight  screen,  glar'd  the  assassins'  eyes, 
As  when  the  fierce  and  fell  hyena  finds 
A  fleshless  carcass.     Stern,  and  hard  of  heart  ! 
How  can  ye  cleave  the  breast  that  thrills  for  you 
With  generous  sympathy  ]     But  what  know  they 
Of  soft  compunction  1 — train'd  from  youth  to  tear 
The  scalp  fresh  bleeding  from  the  tortur'd  brain, 
To  mock  the  victim,  writhing  at  the  stake, 
Or  hurl  the  mother,  with  her  wailing  babe 
Into  the  wigwam's  flame. 

Slow  midnight  came, 
In  dark  companionship  with  sullen  storms, 
The  red  pine  blazes  in  the  old  man's  cave, 
And  every  moment  mov'd  with  leaden  feet, 
To  him  who  traced  it  on  the  dial-plate 
Of  mad  impatience  and  unresting  sin. 
At  length,  above  the  tempest's  groan,  is  heard 
The  sound  of  rushing  steps.     His  blood-shot  eyes 
Look'd  fiery  glad, — as  when  a  tiger  marks 
The  unwary  traveller  near  his  jungle  draw. 
And  as  the  mother  of  Herodias  snatch'd 
The  reeking  charger,  and  the  sever'd  head 
Of  John  the  Baptist, — so  he  thought  to  grasp 
3 


26  WRS-  pigoueney's  poems. 

The  expected  trophy  of  that  soft,  brown  hair, 
Sprinkled  with  early  grey.     The  warriors  spake 
With  troubled  tone. 

"  Father  and  Prophet,  hear  ! 
We  found  him  in  his  tent.     Alone  he  sat, 
Like  some  unwelcom'd  stranger.     Pity  came 
Into  our  breasts,  so  mournful  was  his  brow. 
Still  was  his  death-doom  deep  within  our  souls, 
For  so  we  promis'd  thee.     But  then  he  bow'd 
His  knee  to  earth,  and  with  a  tender  voice 
Did  pray  for  Indians. 

To  the  white  man's  God 
He  bore  our  nation,  with  a  brother's  heart : 
Yea,  even  for  our  little  ones  besought 
A  place  in  heaven.     But  still  we  firmly  grasp'd 
The  murderous  knife,  for  so  we  promis'd  thee. 
Then,  with  a  feathery  instrument,  he  trac'd 
That  speaking  leaf,  by  which  the  pale-fac'd  men 
Bewitch  and  bow  the  mind.     On  the  white  page 
He  seem'd  to  press  his  soul,  and  pour  it  out, 
As  the  bruis'd  plant  doth  give  its  essence  forth 
From  every  leaf  and  fibre.     While  we  gaz'd, 
Lo  !  the  dread  king  of  venomous  serpents  came, 
The  fatal  rattle-snake. 7     So  then  we  taw 
That  our  Great  Spirit  sent  Death's  messenger, 
To  punish  him.     We  waited  to  behold 
His  swollen  visage,  and  his  eyes  suffus'd 
With  mortal  pain. 

Prophet !  we  speak  the  truth  ! 
Believe  our  words.     Close  coiling  at  his  feet, 
With  brightening  tints,  and  wrath-enkindled  eyes, 
The  reptile  lay.     But  then,  as  if  subdued 


MRS.  SIGOUENEV'S    POEMS.  27 

By  the  meek  magic  of  his  beaming  smile, 

Drew  back  the  forked  tongue,  that  quivering  long'd 

To  dart  the  o'erflovving  poison, — and  with  crest 

Erect  and  sparkling,  glided  slow  away. 

Doubtless  he  is  a  god.     We  dared  not  raise 

The  hand  against  him.     For  the  power  forsook 

Our  limbs,  and  scarcely  have  we  totter'd  here 

To  bring  thee  tidings.     Prophet  !  bid  no  more 

His  blood  be  shed.     The  deadly  snake  disarm'd, 

The  might  departing  from  our  warrior-hearts 

That  never  blench'd  in  battle,  or  turn'd  back 

From  mortal  man,  bear  witness,  he  is  god." 

— A  shriek  rose  sharply  o'er  the  warring  winds, 

"  Hence, — curs'd  and  woman-hearted  !     Would  this  arm 

Might  but  one  moment  claim  its  ancient  strength, 

And  lay  ye  low.     Hence  !     See  my  face  no  more  !" 

— And  so  he  drove  them  forth,  tho'  sounding  rains 

Did  roar  like  torrents  down  the  rifted  rocks, 

And  lightnings  cleaving  wide  the  trembling  cloud, 

Blacken'd  the  forest-pines. 

Time  sped  his  wing, 
And  on  the  Lehigh's  solitary  banks 
The  Missionary  stood.     O'er  that  smooth  tide 
The  pensive  moon  wrote  out  in  pencil'd  rays, 
The  same  deep  language,  which  his  boyhood  read 
Upon  the  billowy  Rhine.     Mild  evening's  breeze, 
Stirring  the  interlacing  of  the  elms, 
And  the  slight  reeds  that  fring'd  the  river's  brink, 
Pour'd  the  same  soul-dissolving  sigh,  that  swept 
His  own  Lusatian  forests.     And  the  voice — 
The  writing,  were  of  God. 

Serene  he  mus'd, 


28  MRS-  sigourney's  poems. 

And  felt  that  every  spot  on  earth's  wide  breast 
Was  home  to  him,  for  there  his  Father  dwelt, 
And  all  men  were  his  brethren.     On  that  hour 
Of  high  devotion,  had  the  Spoiler  stole, 
His  step  had  been  mistaken  for  the  sound 
Of  the  soft  rustling  of  angelic  wings  ; 
And  the  soul's  welcome  to  the  stroke  that  rends 
Its  fond  yet  strange  affinity  with  clay, 
Had  been  sublime. 

To  the  believer,  Death 
Is  like  the  lion  which  the  strong  man  slew, 
And  the  sweet  bees  did  with  their  waxen  robe 
And  food  ambrosial,  cover. 

He  who  found 
This  blest  enthusiasm  nerve  his  weary  heart, 
Like  manna  in  the  wilderness, — now  toil'd 
As  a  colonial  sire,  and  thoughtful  plann'd 
'Mid  shelter'd  vallies,  and  aspiring  hills, 
Fit  refuge  for  his  brethren.     Hence  arose 
Fair  Bethlehem,  8  with  all  its  pure  retreats 
And  peaceful  hearths  ;  and  still  its  classic  dome, 
Where  Education  with  the  plastic  mind 
Of  childhood,  mingleth  holiest  elements, 
Doth  venerate  his  name. 

But  now  the  hour 
That  took  the  shepherd  from  his  simple  flock 
Drew  swiftly  on  :  for  still  the  cherish'd  form 
Of  her 9  whose  cheek  was  pallid  for  his  sake, 
Blent  with  his  every  dream, — and  thoughts  of  home* 
Sweet  household  music,  long-remember'd  tones, 
The  far-off  echoes  of  his  stately  halls, 
Had  like  the  voice  of  many  waters,  been 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS.  £9 

Strong  in  his  inmost  soul,  even  while  he  spake 
Salvation's  message  to  the  forest-child. 
— His  work  of  mercy  done,  the  white  sail  spreads 
From  that  broad  city's  queenly  breast,  which  bears 
The  filial  impress  of  the  Man  of  Peace, 
Who  on  the  blended  rivers  bas'd  her  throne, 
And  grav'd  upon  his  signet-ring  her  name 
Of  love  fraternal. 

But  behold  !  a  throng 
In  uncouth  garments,  and  with  savage  port 
Invade  the  parting  scene.     With  wondering  eye, 
But  lip  immoveable,  they  scan  the  domes, 
And  groves,  and  gardens.     Native  pride  restrain'd 
The  voice  of  admiration,  but  the  seal 
Of  abject  wretchedness  seem'd  deeper  stamp'd 
Upon  their  forehead,  as  they  mark'd  a  pomp 
111  understood,  and  felt  in  their  own  realm 
Their  sceptre  broken.     Not  more  wildly  gleam'd 
The  tangled  elf-locks  of  the  astonish'd  Gauls, 
Who,  trampling  on  the  majesty  of  Rome, — 
Saw  her  grave 10  Senate  in  their  curule  chairs, 
And  deem'd  them  demi-gods. 

The  red-brow'd  sires, 
And  the  sad  mothers  with  their  little  ones 
Fast  by  their  side,  and  on  their  shoulders  bound 
Their  helpless  infants,  throng'd  to  deprecate 
The  Teacher's  absence,  and  with  tears  implore 
A  parting  blessing.     Kneeling  on  the  strand 
His  tender  supplication,  by  their  sobs 
Oft  interrupted,  sought  the  ear  of  heaven. 
— Long  with  despairing  eye,  they  watch'd  the  bark 
Cutting  its  watery  path.     Methought  their  brows 

3* 


30  MRS-    SIGOtTENEv's   POEMS. 

By  misery  furrow'd  o'er,  in  strongest  lines, 
Like  some  deep-trac'd  phylactery,  reveal'd 
Prophetic  sentence  of  their  fated  race, 
Which  unrelenting  Destiny  should  waste, 
Till  like  the  mighty  Mastodon,  it  leave 
Nought  save  its  bones  among  us. 

In  the  heart 
Of  Zinzendorff,  their  murmur'd  farewell  tones 
Dwelt, — a  perpetual  cadence,  prompting  oft 
The  interceding  prayer.     It  duly  rose 
Ere  the  bright  morn  sprang  up  from  Ocean's  bed. 
Or  when  amid  his  garniture  of  clouds 
Purple  and  gold,  the  gorgeous  Sun  retir'd 
Into  his  kingly  chamber.     Then  a  voice 
As  of  a  father  for  an  outcast  son, 
O'er  whom  his  pity  yearns,  blent  with  the  sigh 
And  surging  thunder  of  the  sleepless  wave, 
Bearing  the  sorrows  of  the  wandering  tribes 
To  Mercy's  ear. 

Nor  were  their  souls  forgot 
By  their  kind  shepherd,  'mid  the  joys  of  home, 
While  'neath  his  own  ll  baronial  shades,  he  sought 
To  spread  a  banner  o'er  the  sect  he  lov'd, — 
That  peaceful  sect,  which  like  the  man  who  lean'd 
On  Jesus'  breast  at  supper,  best  imbib'd 
The  spirit  of  his  love. 

Hail !  ye  who  went 
Untiring  teachers  to  the  heathen  tribes, 
And  kneeling  with  your  barbarous  pupils,  shap'd 
Their  rude  articulations  into  prayer. 
Ye  fear'd  nor  tropic  suns,  nor  polar  ice, 
Nor  subterranean  cell.     Ye  did  not  shrink 


MBS.    SIGOUHNEY'S    POEMS.  31 

To  plant  the  Tree  of  Life  'mid  arctic  frosts, 
That  the  poor  Greenlander  •?  might  taste  its  fruits, 
And  'mid  his  rayless  night,  devoutly  Mess 
The  Sun  of  Righteousness.     Yet  did  not  shun 
The  savage  in  his  ignorance,  or  loathe 
To  share  his  hut. 

The  passport  to  your  care. 
Hath  been  the  sign  of  deepest  wretchedness, 
The  Ethiop  forehead,  13  and  the  name  of  slave. 
— Teach  us  your  self-denial, — we  who  strive 
To  pluck  the  mote  out  of  our  brother's  creed, 
Till  Charity's  forgotten  plant  doth  ask 
The  water-drop,  and  die.     With  zeal  we  watch 
And  weigh  the  doctrine,  while  the  spirit  'scapes ; 
And  in  the  carving  u  of  our  cummin-seeds, 
Our  metaphysical  hair-splittings,  fail 
To  note  the  orbit  of  that  star  of  love 
Which  never  sets. 

Yea,  even  the  heathen  tribes 
Who  from  our  lips,  amid  their  chaos  dark, 
First  heard  the  "  fiat  lux," — and  joyous  came 
Like  Lazarus  from  his  tomb,  do  wilder'd  ask 
What  guide  to  follow  ;  for  they  see  the  men 
They  took  for  angels,  warring  in  their  paths 
For  Paul,  and  for  Apollos,  till  they  lose 
The  certainty  that  they  are  one  in  Christ, — 
That  simple  clue,  which  thro'  life's  labyrinth 
Leads  to  heaven's  gate. 

Each  differing  sect,  whose  base 
Is  on  the  same  Pure  Word,  doth  strictly  scan 
Its  neighbor's  superstructure, — point  and  arch,— 
Buttress  and  turret, — till  the  hymn  of  praise, 


82  MRS.    SIGOUBNEY?S   POEMS. 

That  from  each  temple  should  go  up  to  God, 
Sinks  in  the  critic's  tone.     All  Christendom 
Is  one  eternal  burnishing  of  shields, 
And  girding  on  of  armor.     So  the  heat 
Of  border  warfare  checks  Salvation's  way. 
The  free  complexion  of  another's  thought 
Doth  militate  against  him,  and  those  shades 
Of  varying  opinion  and  belief, 
Which  sweetly  blended  with  the  skill  of  love, 
Would  make  the  picture  beautiful,  are  blam'd 
As  features  of  deformity. 

We  toil 
To  controvert, — to  argue, — to  defend, 
Camping  amidst  imaginary  foes, 
And  vision'd  heresies.     Even  brethren  deem 
A  name  of  doctrine,  or  a  form  of  words 
A  dense  partition- wall, — tho'  Christ  hath  said, 
"  See,  that  ye  love  each  other." 

So,  come  forth, 
Ye,  who  have  safest  kept  that  Saviour's  law 
Green  as  a  living  germ  within  your  souls, 
Followers  of  Zinzendorff,  stand  meekly  forth, 
And  with  the  gentle  panoply  of  love, 
Persuade  the  sister  churches  to  recall 
Their  wasted  energies,  and  concentrate 
In  one  bright  focal  point,  their  quenchless  zeal, 
Till  from  each  region  of  the  darken'd  globe, 
The  everlasting  Gospel's  glorious  wing 
Shall  wake  the  nations  to  Jehovah's  praise. 


MRS.    S1G0URKEY  3    POEMS. 


33 


NOTES. 

1  "  Its  roughly- guarded  pass." 

The  Susquehanna,  after  entering  Luzerne  county,  Penn.,  breaks 
into  the  valley  of  Wyoming,  near  the  mouth  of  the  Lackawanna, 
through  a  narrow  mountain  chasm,  rendered  rugged  by  perpendicular 
rocks,  and  after  pursuing  a  serpentine  course,  for  twenty  miles,  breaks 
again  out  of  the  valley,  at  a  similar  pass,  called  the  "IN'anticoke  gap." 

2  "  The  landscape  hath  a  legend." 

The  battle  fought  on  the  3d  of  July,  1778,  between  the  Americans, 
under  the  command  of  Col.  Zebulon  Butler,  and  the  British,  led  on  by 
Col.  John  Butler,  and  a  Chieftain  of  mixed  blood,  named  Brandt,  is 
sometimes  styled  both  in  history  and  poetry,  the  "  Wyoming  massa- 
cre." 

3  "  Where  the  last  relics  of  the  fallen  brave 
Were  gathered  by  their  sons." 

"  The  occasion  of  our  assembling  in  this  spot,  is  one  of  no  common 
interest :  to  witness  the  re-interment  of  the  mutilated  bones  of  our 
ancestors,  and  to  perform  the  grateful  duty  of  laying  the  corner-stone 
of  their  monument.  This  work  of  gratitude  is  destined,  in  the  language 
of  the  eloquent  Webster,  to  '  rise  nil  it  meet  the  sun  in  his  coming, — 
till  the  earliest  light  of  morning  shall  gild  it,  and  the  parting  day  linger 
and  play  upon  its  summit.'  ''  —  Oration  of  Chester  Butter,  Esq.,  on 
laying  the  corner-stone  of  the  Wyoming  Monument,  July  3,  1833. 

0     4  "  The  slumbering  Anthracite." 

The  beautiful  vale  of  Wyoming  is  distinguished  by  the  anthracite 
coal  formation.  This  valuable  mineral,  as  exhibited  in  that  region,  is 
unsurpassed  in  richness  and  brilliancy,  and  in  quantity  apparently 
inexhaustible. 

5  "  A  white-brme'd  stranger" 

Count  Zinzendorff,  a  nobleman  of  Saxony,  the  restorer  of  the  an-* 
cient  church  of  the  United  Brethren,  or  Moravians,  performed  a  mission 
to  the  Indians  of  Wyoming,  in  the  year  1742.  He  is  asserted  to  have 
been  the  first  white  person  who  had  ever  visited  that  portion  of  the 
Shawanese  and  Delaware  tribes,  who  held  dominion  in  the  valley. 

6  "  The  icoad-stain'd  Briton,  in  his  wattled  boat." 

The  boats  of  the  ancient  Britons  were  composed  of  basket-work, 
covered  with  the  skins  of  beasts.  So  much  were  these  baskets  admir- 
ed in  Rome,  and  such  quantities  were  exported  there,  that  one  of  their 
Batirical  poets  ridicules  them  as  among  the  luxuries  of  his  countrymen, 
more  than  a  hundred  years  alter  the  conquest  of  the  British  isles, 


34  MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS. 

7  "  ITie fatal  rattle- snake." 

"  Zinzendorff  was  alone  in  his  tent,  seated  upon  a  bundle  of  dry 
weeds  that  composed  his  bed,  and  engaged  in  writing,  when  the  In- 
dians, who  had  determined  10  murder  him,  approached  to  execute  their 
bloody  commission.  It  was  night,  and  the  cool  air  of  September  ren- 
dered a  small  fire  necessary  to  his  comfort.  A  curtain  formed  of  a 
blanket,  and  hung  upon  pins,  was  the  only  guard  to  the  entrance  of  his 
tent.  The  heat  of  the  fire  aroused  a  large  rattle-snake,  which  crawled 
slowly  into  the  tent,  and  passed  over  his  feet  undiscovered.  At  this 
moment,  the  assassins  softly  approached  the  door  of  his  tent,  and 
slightly  removing  the  curtain,  contemplated  the  venerable  man,  too 
deeply  absorbed  in  meditation  to  notice  either  their  approach,  or  the 
venomous  snake  that  lay  extended  before  him.  At  this  sight,  even 
savage  hearts  shrank  from  their  deadly  purpose,  and  suddenly  quitting 
the  spot,  they  bore  tidings  that  the  white  man  was  in  league  with  the 
Great  Spirit."' — Chapman  s  History  of  Wyoming. 

8  "  Fair  Bethlehem." 

Zinzendorff,  during  his  second  voyage  to  America,  founded  the  col- 
ony of  Bethlehem, — a  spot  celebrated  both  for  its  beauty  of  scenery, 
and  its  school,  where  the  elements  of  piety  are  blended  with  the  whole 
process  of  education,  and  presented  to  the  young  mind,  as  the  source  of 
daily  serenity  and  joy,  as  well  as  of  future  felicity. 

9  " Of her  whose  cheek  was  pallid  for  his  sake." 

His  w7ife,  the  sister  of  the  Prince  of  Reuss,  was  distinguished  for 
every  excellence,  and  during  his  absence,  took  charge  of  his  estates, 
and  devoied  their  surplus  income  to  the  works  of  Benevolence  in  which 
he  delighted. 

to  "Sazc  her  grave  Senate  in  their  curule  chairs. 
And  deem'd  them  demi  gods." 

When  the  victorious  Gauls,  under  Brennus,  entered  Rome,  they 
found  the  ancient  Senators  sitting  in  their  order,  in  the  Forum,  un- 
daunted and  unmoved.  Their  splendid  habits,  their  majestic  gravity, 
and  venerable  countenances,  awed  the  barbarians  into  reverence,  and 
they  offered  them  adoration,  as  tutelar  deities. 

11  "  'Neath  his  own  baronial  shades,  he  sought 
To spread  a  banner  o'er  the  sect  he  lov'd." 

Zinzendorff 's  estate  of  Bertholsdorf,  in  Lusatia,  was  a  refuge  for  the 
persecuted  Moravians.  He,  with  the  Countess,  continually  extended 
to  them  patronage  and  assistance.  By  them,  the  settlement  of  Hernn- 
hut  was  protected  and  cherished,  from  whence  the  first  missionaries 
went  forth,  to  the  West  Indies  and  to  Greenland,  somewhat  more  than 
a  century  since. 

12  "  That  the  poor  Greenlander  might  taste  its  fruits." 
The  centennial  anniversary  of  the  Moravian  missions  in  Greenland, 
was  celebrated  on  the  20th  of  January,  1833,  with  great  joy  and  grati- 


MRS.    SIGOUBNEY's    POEMS.  35 

tude  among  the  different  congregations,  established  by  those  devoted 
servants  of  the  cross,  in  that  inclement  clime. 

13  "The  JSthiop  forehead,  and  the  name  of  slave." 

More  than  40,0C0  of  the  converts,  connected  with  the  214  mission 
stations  maintained  by  the  United  Brethren,  in  different  parts  of  the 
globe,  are  either  dwellers  in  Africa,  or  slaves  in  the  West  India  Islands. 

H  "  And  in  the  carving  of  our  cummin-seeds" 

"Antoninus  Pius,  from  his  desire  to  search  into  the  least  differen- 
ces, was  called  '  cumini  sector/ — the  carver  of  cummin-seeds." — Ful- 
lers Holy  State. 


NIAGARA. 

Flow  on  forever,  in  thy  glorious  robe 
Of  terror  and  of  beauty. — Yea,  flow  on 
Unfathom'd  and  resistless. — God  hath  set 
His  rainbow  on  thy  forehead  :  and  the  cloud 
Mantled  around  thy  feet. — And  he  doth  give 
Thy  voice  of  thunder,  power  to  speak  of  Him 
Eternally, — bidding  the  lip  of  man 
Keep  silence, — and  upon  thy  rocky  altar  pour 
Incense  of  awe-struck  praise. 

Ah  !  who  can  dare 
To  lift  the  insect-trump  of  earthly  hope, 
Or  love,  or  sorrow, — 'mid  the  peal  sublime 
Of  thy  tremendous  hymn  ]  Even  Ocean  shrinks 
Back  from  thy  brotherhood  :  and  all  lis  waves 
Retire  abash'd.     For  he  doth  sometimes  seem 
To  sleep  like  a  spent  laborer, — and  recall 
His  wearied  billows  from  their  vexing  play 
And  lull  them  to  a  cradle  calm  : — but  thou, 
With  everlasting,  undecaying  tide, 


36  MRS.    SIGOURNEY'S    POEMS. 

Dost  rest  not,  night  or  day, — The  morning  stars, 
When  first  they  sang  o'er  young  creation's  birth, 
Heard  thy  deep  anthem,  and  those  wrecking  fires 
That  wait  the  archangel's  signal  to  dissolve 
This  solid  earth,  shall  find  Jehovah's  name 
Graven,  as  with  a  thousand  diamond  spears 
On  thine  unending  volume. 

Every  leaf 
That  lifts  itself  within  thy  wide  domain, 
Doth  gather  greenness  from  thy  living  spray, 
Yet  tremble  at  the  baptism. — Lo  ! — yon  birds 
Do  boldly  venture  near,  and  bathe  their  wing 
Amid  thy  mist  and  foam.     'Tis  meet  for  them, 
To  touch  thy  garment's  hem,  and  lightly  stir 
The  snowy  leaflets  of  thy  vapor  wreath, 
For  they  may  sport  unharmed  amid  the  cloud, 
Or  listen  at  the  echoing  gate  of  heaven, 
Without  reproof.     But  as  for  us,  i   seems 
Scarce  lawful,  with  our  broken  tones,  to  speak 
Familiarly  of  thee. — Methinks,  to  tint 
Thy  glorious  features  with  our  pencil's  point, 
Or  woo  thee  to  the  tablet  of  a  song 
Were  profanation. 

Thou  dost  make  the  soul 
A  wondering  witness  of  thy  Majesty, 
But  as  it  presses  with  delirious  joy 
To  pierce  thy  vestibule,  dost  chain  its  step, 
And  tame  its  rapture,  with  the  humbling  view 
Of  its  own  nothingness,  bidding  it  stand 
In  the  dread  presence  of  the  Invisible, 
As  if  to  answer  to  its  God,  through  thee. 


MRS.   SIGOURXEY'S  POEMS.  37 


DEATH  OF  THE  REV.  DR.  CORNELIUS. 

"  All  ye  that  were  about  him,  bemoan  him,  and  all  ye  that  know  his 
name,  say,  how  is  the  strong  staff  broken, — and  the  beautiful  rod  7" — 
Jer.  xlviii,  17. 

And  can  it  be, — and  can  it  be,  that  thou  art  on  thy  bier  \ 

But  yesterday,  in  all  the  prime  of  life's  unspent  career  ! 

I've  seen  the  forest's  noblest  tree  laid  low,  when  lightning's  shine, 

The  column  in  its  majesty  torn  from  the  temple-shrine, 

Yet  little  deern'd  that  ice  so  soon  would  check  thy  vital  stream, 

The  Sun  that  soar'd  without  a  cloud,  thus  veil  its  noon-day  beam. 

I've  seen  thee  in  thy  glory  stand,  while  all  around  was  hush'd, 
And  seraph-wisdom  from  thy  lips,  in  tones  of  music  gush'd, 
For  thou,  with  willing  hand  didst  lay  at  morning's  dewy  hour, 
Down  at  the  feet  of  Him,  who  gave  thy  beauty  and  thy  power, 
Thou,  for  the  helpless  sons  of  woe,  didst  plead  with  words  of  flame, 
And  boldly  strike  the  rocky  heart,  in  thy  Redeemer's  name. 

And  lo  !  that  withering  race  who  fade  as  dew  'neath  summer's  ray, 
Who  like  the  uprooted  weed  are  cast  from  their  own  earth  away, 
Who  trusted  to  a  nation's  vow,  yet  found  that  faith  was  vain, 
And  to  their  fathers'  sepu'chres  return  no  more  again  ; 
They  need  thy  blended  eloquence  of  lip,  and  eye,  and  brow, 
They  need  the  righteous  for  a  shield,  ichy  art  thou  absent  now  ? 

Long  shall  thine  image  freshly  dwell  beside  their  native  streams, 
And  'mid  their  wanderings  far  and  wide,  illume  their  alien  dreams, 
For  Heaven  to  their  sequester'd  haunts  thine  early  steps  did  guide, 
And  the  Cherokee  hath  bless'd  thy  brow,  his  cabin-hearth  beside, 
The  Osage  orphan  sadly  breath'd  her  sorrows  to  thine  ear, 
And  the  lofty  warrior  knelt  him  down  with  strange,  repentant  tear. 
4 


38  MRS-   6IG0UBNEY  S    POEMS. 

I  see  a  consecrated  throng,  of  youthful  watchmen  rise, 
Each  girding  on  for  Zion's  sake,  their  heaven-wrought  panoplies, 
These,  in  their  solitudes  obscure,  thy  generous  ardor  sought, 
And  gathering  with  a  tireless  hand,  up  to  the  temple  brought 
These,  while  the  altar  of  their  God,  they  serve  with  hallow'd  zeal, 
Shall  wear  thy  memory  on  their  heart,  an  everlasting  seal. 

I  hear  a  voice  of  wailing  from  the  islands  of  the  sea, 
Salvation's  distant  heralds  mourn  on  heathen  shores  for  thee, 
Thy  constant  love,  like  Gilead's  balm,  refresh'd  their  weary  mind, 
And  with  the  bless'd  Evart's  name  thine  own  was  strongly  twin'd, 
But  thou,  from  this  illusive  scene,  hast  like  a  vision  fled, 
Just  wrapp'd  his  mantle  o'er  thy  breast,  then  join'd  him  with  the 
dead. 

Farewell !  we  yield  thee  to  the  tomb,  with  many  a  bitter  tear, 
Tho'  'twas  not  meet  a  soul  like  thine  should  longer  tarry  here, 
Fond,  clustering  hopes  have  sunk  with  thee,  that  earth  can  ne'er 

restore. 
Love  casts  a  garland  on  thy  turf,  that  may  not  blossom  more, 
But  thou  art  where  the  dream  of  hope  doth  in  fruition  fade, 
And  Love,  immortal  and  refin'd,  glow  on  without  a  shade. 


MRS.   SIGOUCN'EY's    POEMS.  39 


"The  Lord  is  in  his  holy  temple;— let  all  the  Earth  keep  silence 
before  him." 

The  Lord  is  on  his  holy  throne, 

He  sits  in  kingly  state  ; 
Let  those  who  for  his  favor  seek, 

In  humble  silence  wait. 

Your  sorrows  to  his  eye  are  known, 

Your  secret  motives  clear  ; 
It  needeth  not  the  pomp  of  words, 

To  pour  them  on  his  ear. 

Doth  Death  thy  bosom's  cell  invade  1 

Yield  up  thy  flower  of  grass  ;  ■ 
Swells  the  world's  wrathful  billow  high  ? 

Bow  down,  and  let  it  pass. 

Press  not  thy  purpose  on  thy  God, 

Urge  not  thine  erring  will, 
Nor  dictate  to  the  Eternal  mind, 

Nor  doubt  thy  Maker's  skill. 

True  Prayer  is  not  the  noisy  sound 

That  clamorous  lips  repeat, 
But  the  deep  silence  of  a  soul 

That  clasps  Jehovah's  feet. 


40  MRS-  sigourney's  poems. 

THE   DEAD   HORSEMAN, 

Occasioned  by  reading  the  manner  of  conveying  a  young  man  to 
burial,  in  the  mountainous  region  about  Vettie's  Giel,  in  Norway. 

Who's  riding  o'er  the  Giel  so  fast, 

'Mid  the  crags  of  Utledale  ? 
He  heeds  nor  cold,  nor  storm,  nor  blast ; 

But  his  cheek  is  deadly  pale. 

A  fringe  of  pearl,  from  his  eye-lash  long, 

Stern  Winter's  hand  hath  hung  ; 
And  his  sinewy  arm  looks  bold  and  strong, 

Though  his  brow  is  smooth  and  young. 

O'er  his  marble  forehead,  in  clusters  bright 

Is  wreathed  his  golden  hair  ; 
His  robe  is  of  linen,  long  and  white, 
Though  a  mantle  of  fur  scarce  could  'bide  the  blight 

Of  this  keen  and  frosty  air. 

God  speed  thee  now,  thou  horseman  bold  ! 

For  the  tempest  awakes  in  wrath  ; 
And  thy  stony  eye  is  fixed  and  cold 

As  the  glass  of  thine  icy  path. 

Down,  down  the  precipice  wild  he  breaks, 

Where  the  foaming  waters  roar ; 
And  his  way  up  the  cliff  of  the  mountain  takes, 

Where  man  never  trod  before. 

No  checking  hand  to  the  rein  he  lends, 

On  slippery  summits  sheen  ; 
But  ever  and  aye  his  head  he  bends 

At  the  plunge  in  some  dark  ravine. 


MRS.   SIGOUENEY's    POEMS.  41 

Dost  thou  bow  in  prayer,  to  the  God  who  guides 

Thy  course  o'er  such  pavement  frail ! 
Or  nod  in  thy  dream  o'er  the  steep,  where  glides 
The  curdling  brook,  with  its  slippery  tides, 

Thou  horseman,  so  young  and  pale  1 

Swift,  swift  o'er  the  breast  of  the  frozen  streams, 

Toward  Lyster-Church  he  hies — 
Whose  holy  spire,  'mid  the  glaciers  gleams, 

Like  a  star  in  troubled  skies. 

Now  stay,  thou  ghostly  traveller — stay 

Why  haste  in  such  mad  career  3 
Be  the  guilt  of  thy  bosom  as  dark  as  it  may, 

'Twere  better  to  purge  it  here. 

On,  on  !  like  the  winged  blast  he  wends, 
Where  moulder  the  bones  of  the  dead — 

Wilt  thou  stir  the  sleep  of  thy  buried  friends, 
With  thy  courser's  tramping  tread  1 

At  a  yawning  pit,  whose  narrow  brink, 

'Mid  the  swollen  snow  was  grooved, 
He  paused.     The  steed  from  that  chasm  did  shrink, 

But  the  rider  sate  unmoved. 

Then  down  at  once,  from  his  lonely  seat, 

They  lifted  that  horseman  pale, 
And  laid  him  low  in  the  drear  retreat 
And  poured  in  dirge-like  measure  sweet, 

The  mournful  funeral  wail. 
4* 


42  MES-    SIGOURNEY  S    POEMS. 

Bold  youth  !  whose  bosom  with  pride  had  glowed 

In  a  life  of  toil  severe — 
Didst  thou  scorn  to  pass  to  thy  last  abode 

In  the  ease  of  the  slothful  bier  1 

Must  thy  own  good  steed,  which  thy  hands  had  drest, 

In  the  fulness  of  boyhood's  bliss, 
By  the  load  of  thy  lifeless  limbs  be  prest, 

On  a  journey  so  strange  as  this  ! 

Yet  still  to  the  depths  of  yon  rock-barred  dell, 
Where  no  ray  from  heaven  hath  glowed, 

Where  the  thundering  rush  of  the  Markefoss  fell. 

The  trembling  child  doth  point  and  tell, 
How  that  fearful  horseman  rode. 


THE   TOMB  OF  JOSEPHINE. 

"A  Josephine,*— Eugene  et  Hortense." — 1825. 
Empress  of  Earth's  most  polish'd  clime  ! 

Whose  path  of  splendid  care 
Did  touch  the  zenith-point  of  hope, 

The  nadir  of  despair, — 
Here  doth  thy  wrong'd,  confiding  heart 

Resign  its  tortur'd  thrill, 
And  slumber  like  the  peasant's  dust, 

All  unconcern'd  and  still  1 

*  The  inscription  on  the  tomb  of  the  Empress  Josephine,— erected 
by  her  ohildren. 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY'S   POEMS.  43 

Did  Love  yon  arch  of  marble  rear 

To  mark  the  hallow'd  ground  1 
And  bid  those  doric  columns  spring 

With  clustering  roses  crovvn'd ! 
Say, — did  it  come  with  gifts  of  peace 

To  deck  thy  couch  of  gloom  1 
And  like  relenting  Athens  bless 

Its  guiltless  martyr's  tomb? 

No  ! — no  !  the  stern  and  callous  breast 

Sear'd  by  Ambition's  flame, 
No  kindlings  of  remorse  confest 

At  thy  remember'd  name  : 
Alike  the  Corsican  abjur'd 

With  harsh  and  ingrate  tone, 
The  beauty  and  the  love  that  pav'd 

His  pathway  to  a  throne. 

He  turn'd  in  apathy  to  gaze 

Upon  his  Austrian  bride, 
Nor  heard  dark  fate's  prophetic  sigh 

That  warn'd  the  fall  of  pride  ; 
Saw  not  the  vision'd  battle  shock 

That  cleft  his  Babel  fame, 
Nor  mark'd  on  far  Helena's  rock 

A  sepulchre  of  shame. 

France  ! — France  !  by  thy  indignant  zeal 

Were  fitting  honors  paid, 
And  did  thy  weeping  fondness  sooth 

The  unrequited  shade  1 


44  MRS-  sigourney's  poems. 

Bad'st  thou  yon  breathing  statue  strive 
Her  faultless  form  to  show  1 

But  rushing  on  in  reckless  mirth, 
That  empire  answered, — No. 

Then  lo  ! — a  still  small  voice  arose 

Amid  that  silence  drear, 
Such  voice  as  from  the  cradle  bed 

Doth  charm  the  mother's  ear, 
And  then,  methought,  two  clasping  hands 

Were  from  that  marble  thrust, 
And  strange  their  living  freshness  gleam'd 

Amid  that  sculptur'd  dust. 

Empress  !  the  filial  blossoms  nurs'd 

Within  thy  bosom's  fold, 
Surviv'd  the  wreath  that  traitor  Love 

To  heartless  glory  sold, — 
Those  hands  thy  monument  have  rear'd 

Where  pausing  pilgrims  come  ; 
That  voice  thy  mournful  requiem  pour'd 

Though  all  the  world  was  dumb. 


MBS.    SlGOURXEY's    POEMS.  45 


JOY  IN  BELIEVING. 

ft  God  desireth  to  have  no  slaves  in  his  family."— Rev.  Dr.  Hawes. 
Man  asketh  homage.     When  his  foot  doth  stand 
On  earth's  high  places,  he  exacteth  fear 
From  those  who  serve  him.     His  proud  spirit  loves 
The  quick  observance  of  an  abject  eye 
And  cowering  brow.     His  dignity  he  deems, 
Demands  such  aliment, — and  he  doth  show 
Its  evanescence,  by  the  food  he  seeks 
To  give  it  nutriment.     Yea,  more  than  this — 
He  o'er  his  brother  rules,  with  scourge  and  chain, 
Treading  out  Nature's   charities,  till  life 
To  madness  tortur'd,  or  in  misery  crush'd, 
Goes,  an  accusing  spirit,  back  to  God. 
— But  He,  the  Eternal  Ruler,  wilieth  not 
The  slavery  of  the  soul.     His  claim  is  love, 
A  filial  spirit,  and  a  song  of  praise. 
It  doth  not  please  him,  that  his  servants  wear 
The  livery  of  mourning.     Peace  is  sown 
Along  their  pilgrim  path, — and  holy  hopes 
Like  birds  of  Paradise,  do  sweetly  pour 
Melodious  measures, —  and  a  glorious  faith 
Springs  up  o'er  Jordan's  wave.     Say,  is  it  meet 
For  those  who  wear  a  Saviour's  badge,  to  sigh 
In  heathen  heaviness,  when  earthly  joys 
Quench  their  brief  taper  1  or  go  shrinking  down 
As  to  a  dungeon,  when  the  gate  of  Death 
Opes  its  low  vaive,  to  show  the  shining  track 
Up  to  an  angel's  heritage  of  bliss  1 


46  MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS. 


FAITH. 

Wrapt  in  the  robe  of  Faith, 
Come  to  the  place  of  prayer, 

And  seal  thy  deathless  vows  to  Him 
Who  makes  thy  life  his  care. 

Doth  he  thy  sunny  skies 

O'ercloud  with  tempest  gloom  ? 

Or  take  the  idol  of  thy  breast, 
And  hide  it  in  the  tomb  1 

Or  bid  thy  treasur'd  joys 

In  hopeless  ruin  lie  ? 
Search  not  his  reasons, — wait  his  will, 

Thy  record  is  on  high. 

For  should  he  strip  thy  heart 

Of  all  it  boasts  on  earth, 
And  set  thee  naked  and  alone, 

As  at  thy  day  of  birth, 

He  cannot  do  thee  wrong, 
Those  gifts  were  his  at  first, 

Draw  nearer  to  his  changeless  throne, 
Bow  deeper  inthe  dust. 

Calls  he  thy  parting  soul 
Unbodied  from  the  throng  1 

Cling  closer  to  thy  Saviour's  cross, 
And  raise  the  victor  song. 


MRS.    SIGOUBNEY'S    POEMS.  47 


THE  INDIAN'S   WELCOME   TO   THE  PILGRIM 
FATHERS. 

I*  On  Friday,  March  16th,  1622,  while  the  colonists  were  busied  in 
their  usual  labors,  they  were  much  surprised  to  see  a  savage  walk 
boldly  towards  them,  and  salute  them  with, <:  much  welcome,  English, 
much  welcome,  Englishmen." 

Above  them  spread  a  stranger  sky 

Around,  the  sterile  plain, 
The  rock-bound  coast  rose  frowning  nigh, 

Beyond, — the  wrathful  main  : 
Chill  remnants  of  the  wintry  snow 

Still  chok'd  the  encumber'd  soil, 
Yet  forth  these  Pilgrim  Fathers  go, 

To  mark  their  future  toil. 

'Mid  yonder  vale  their  corn  must  rise 

In  Summer's  ripening  pride, 
And  there  the  church-spire  woo  the  skies 

Its  sister-school  beside. 
Perchance  'mid  England's  velvet  green 

Some  tender  thought  repos'd, — 
Though  nought  upon  their  stoic  mien 

Such  soft  regret  disclos'd. 

When  sudden  from  the  forest  wide 

A  red-brow'd  chieftain  came, 
With  towering  form,  and  haughty  stride, 

And  eye  like  kindling  flame  : 
No  wrath  he  breath'd,  no  conflict  sought, 

To  no  dark  ambush  drew, 
But  simply  to  the  Old  World  brought, 

The  welcome  of  the  New. 


48  MRS«  sigourney's  poems. 

That  welcome  was  a  blast  and  ban 

Upon  thy  race  unborn. 
Was  there  no  seer,  thou  fated  Man  ! 

Thy  lavish  zeal  to  warn  1 
Thou  in  thy  fearless  faith  didst  hail 

A  weak,  invading  band, 
But  who  shall  heed  thy  children's  wail, 

Swept  from  their  native  land  ? 

Thou  gav'st  the  riches  of  thy  streams, 

The  lordship  o'er  thy  waves, 
The  region  of  thine  infant  dreams, 

And  of  thy  fathers'  graves, 
But  who  to  yon  proud  mansions  piPd 

With  wealth  of  earth  and  sea, 
Poor  outcast  from  thy  forest  wild, 

Say,  who  shall  welcome  thee  ? 


DEATH  AMONG  THE  TREES. 

Death  walketh  in  the  forest. 

The  tall  pines 
Do  woo  the  lightning-flash,  and  through  their  veins 
The  fire-cup,  darting,  leaves  their  blackened  trunks 
A  tablet,  for  ambition's  sons  to  read 
Their  destiny.     The  oak,  that  centuries  spared, 
Grows  grey  at  last,  and  like  some  time-worn  man 
Stretching  out  palsied  arms,  doth  feebly  cope 
With  the  destroyer,  while  its  gnarl'd  roots 
Betray  their  trust.    The  towering  elm  turns  pale, 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS.  49 

And  faintly  strews  the  sere  and  yellow  lea£ 
While  from  its  dead  arms  falls  the  wedded  vine. 
The  sycamore  uplifts  a  beacon  brow, 
Denuded  of  its  honors,  and  the  blast, 
Swaying  the  withered  willow,  rudeiy  asks 
For  its  lost  grace,  and  for  its  tissued  leaf, 
With  silver  lined. 

I  knew  that  blight  might  check 
The  sapling,  ere  kind  Nature's  hand  could  weave 
Its  first  spring-coronal,  and  that  the  worm, 
Coiling  itself  amid  our  garden  plants, 
Did  make  their  unborn  buds  its  sepulchre. 
And  well  I  knew  how  wild  and  wrecking  winds 
Might  take  the  forest- monarchs  by  the  crown, 
And  lay  them  with  the  lowliest  vassal-herb  ; 
And  that  the  axe,  with  its  sharp  ministry, 
Might,  in  one  hour,  such  revolution  work, 
As  all  Earth's  boasted  power  could  never  hope 
To  re-instate.     And  I  had  seen  the  flame 
Go  crackling  up,  amid  yon  verdant  boughs, 
And  with  a  tyrant's  insolence  dissolve 
Their  interlacing,  till  I  felt  that  man, 
For  sordid  gain  would  make  the  forest's  pomp 
Its  heaven-raised  arch  and  living  tracery, 
One  funeral-pyre. 

But,  yet  I  did  not  deem 
That  pale  Disease  amid  those  shades  wTould  steal 
As  to  a  sickly  maiden's  cheek,  and  waste 
The  power  and  plenitude  of  those  high  ranks, 
Which  in  their  peerage  and  nobility, 
Unrivalled  and  unchronicled,  had  reigned. 
And  so  I  said  if  in  this  world  of  knells 
5 


50  MRS.    SIGOURNEV'S   POEMS. 

And  open  tombs,  there  lingereth  one  whose  dream 
Is  of  aught  permament  below  the  skies, 
Even  let  him  come  and  muse  among  the  trees, 
For  they  shall  be  his  teachers  ;  they  shall  bow 
To  Wisdom's  lessons  his  forgetful  ear, 
And,  by  the  whisper  of  their  faded  leaves, 
Soften  to  his  sad  heart  the  thought  of  death. 


THE  TEST  OF  LIFE. 

Death  is  the  test  of  life. — All  else  is  vain. 

The  adulation  of  a  fickle  crowd, 
Victory's  proud  pomp,  and  Glory's  pageant  train 

Fleet  like  the  tinting  of  yon  summer  cloud. 
This  Caesar  felt,  in  that  tremendous  hour 

When  the  dire  dagger  search'd  his  breast  so  well, 
When  all  unsated  still  his  lust  of  power 

Upbraiding  man's  ingratitude, — he  fell. 

Go, — spread  of  him  of  Macedon  the  tale 

To  the  dull  bacchanalian's  vacant  eye, — 
How  he  beneath  whose  frown  the  world  grew  pale, 

Sank  in  the  wine  cup,  like  a  drowning  fly. 
For  Sweden's  madman,  ask  Pultowa's  walls, 

But  pensive  Memory  in  her  treasure-cell, 
The  widow's  wail  and  orphan's  rnoan  recalls 

That  lawless  murderer's  obsequies  to  swell 

How  died  Napoleon  1 — Ask  Helena's  rock, — 
Ask  the  wild  surge  which  with  its  hoariest  crest 

Was  but  a  whisper  to  the  earthquake  shock 
Of  the  vex'd  passions  warring  in  his  breast. 


MRS.    SXGOURNEY's   POEMS.  51 

And  thus  they  died,  whom  blind  and  erring  men 
Like  demi-gods  have  worshipp'd — and  their  names 

In  liquid  fire  have  flow'd  from  history's  pen, 
As  baleful  Etna  o'er  the  concave  flames. 

Look  to  the  friends  of  peace, — who  never  sought 

The  blood-stain'd  laurel  from  its  bed  to  tear, 
But  in  stern  toils,  or  bowers  of  studious  thought 

Still  made  the  welfare  of  mankind  their  care. 
See  Howard,  dauntless  'mid  the  dungeon-gloom, 

Or  latent  poisons  of  a  foreign  sky, — 
Hear  Addison  while  sinking  to  the  tomb, 

Exclaim  in  hop  -,  "  Behold  a  Christian  die  !" 

Thou  too,  blest  Raikes, — philanthropist  divine, — 

Who  all  unconscious  what  thy  hands  had  done, 
Didst  plant  that  germ  whose  glorious  fruit  shall  shine 

When  from  his  throne  doth  fall  yon  darken'd  sun, 
The  Sabbath-bell,  the  teacher's  hallow'd  lore, 

The  countless  throng  from  childhood's  snares  set  free, 
Who  in  sweet  strains  the  Sire  of  Heaven  adore, 

Shall  point  in  solemn  gratitude  to  thee. 

Who  was  with  Martyn  when  he  breath'd  his  last, 

A  martyr  pale  on  Asia's  burning  sod  1 
Who  cheer'd  his  spirit  as  it  onward  past 

From  its  frail  house  of  clay  7 — The  host  of  God, 
Oh  !  ye  who  trust  when  earthly  toils  shall  cease 

To  find  a  home  in  Heaven's  unerring  clime, 
Drink  deeper  at  the  fountain-head  of  peace, 

And  cleanse  your  spirits  for  that  world  sublime. 


52  MRS.   SIGOURNEY'S   POEMS. 


"Thy  mercies  are  new  every  morning  and  fresh  every  moment." 
—David. 

Oh  Thou,  who  bounteous  to  their  need, 
Dost  all  earth's  thronging  pilgrims  feed, 
Dost  bid  for  them  in  every  clime, 
The  pregnant  harvest  know  its  time, 
The  flocks  in  verdant  pastures  dwell, 
The  corn  aspire,  the  olive  swell, 
Fain  would  we  bless  that  sleepless  Eye, 
That  doth  our  hourly  wants  descry. 
— Thou  pour'st  us  from  the  nested  grave, 
The  minstrel-melody  of  love. 
Thou  giv'st  us  of  the  fruitage  fair 
That  summer's  ardent  suns  prepare, 
Of  honey  from  the  rock  that  flows, 
And  of  the  perfume  of  the  rose, 
And  of  the  breeze,  whose  balm  repairs 
The  sickening  waste  of  toil  and  cares. 
— And  tho',  perchance,  the  ingrate  knee 
Bends  not  in  praise,  or  prayer  to  thee, 
Tho'  Sin  that  stole  with  traitor-sway 
Even  Peter's  loyalty  away, 
May  strongly  weave  its  seven-fold  snare, 
And  bring  dejection  and  despair  ; 
Yet  not  the  morn  with  cheering  eye 
More  duly  lights  the  expecting  sky, 
Nor  surer  speeds  on  pinion  light 
Each  measur'd  moment's  trackless  flight* 
Than  comes  thy  mercy's  kind  embrace 
To  feeble  man's  forgetful  race, 


MRS.    SIGOUHNEY's    POE.M5.  53 

FUNERAL  OF  DR.  MASON  F.  COGGSWELL. 

There  was  a  throng-  within  the  temple-gates, 

And  more  of  sorrow  on  each  thoughtful  brow 

Than  seern'd  to  fit  the  sacred  day  of  praise. 

Neighbor  on  neighbor  gaz'd,  and  friend  on  friend, 

Yet  few  saluted  ;  for  the  sense  of  loss 

Weigh'd  heavy  in  each  bosom.     Even  the  dirge 

Breath'd  tremulous — for  heavy  music  moan'd 

A  smitten  worshipper.     Grave,  aged  men 

Bow'd  down  their  reverend  heads  in  wondering  woe, 

That  he  who  so  retain'd  the  ardent  smile 

And  step  elastic  of  life's  morning  prime, 

Should  fall  before  them.     Stricken  at  his  side 

Were  friendships  of  no  common  fervency 

Or  brief  endurance  ;  for  at  his  n-lad  tone 

And  the  warm  pressure  of  his  hand,  awoke 

Fond  recollections,  scenes  of  boyhood's  bliss, 

And  the  unwounded  trust  of  guileless  years, 

Glassing'  themselves  in  each  congenial  breast. 

— The  men  of  skill,  who  cope  with  stern  disease, 

And  wear  Hygeia's  mantle,  offering  still 

Fresh  incense  at  her  shrine,  with  sighs  deplore 

A  brother  and  a  guide  :  while  yon  mute  train, 

Whose  speech  is  in  the  eye*  po  ir  forth  their  tears, 

A<  o'er  a  father  lost.     Say, — can  ye  teil 

How  many  now  amid  this  gather'd  throng 

In  tender  meditations  deeply  muse, 

Coupling  his  ima^e  with  their  gratitude  ] 

Hi  had  stood  with  them  at  the  gate  of  Death, 

•  The  deaf  and  dumb,— of  whose  Asylum  in  Hartfcrd,  he  was  a 
founder  and  patron. 

5* 


54  MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS. 

And  pluck'd  them  from  the  Spoiler's  threatening  grasp, 

Or  when  the  roses  from  their  pilgrimage 

Were  shorn,  walk'd  humbly  with  them  'neath  the  cloud 

Of  God's  displeasure.     Such  remembrances 

Rush  o'er  their  spirits  with  a  whelming  tide, 

Till  in  the  heart's  deep  casket,  tribute  tears 

Lie  thick,  like  pearls.     And  doubt  not  there  are  those 

'Mid  this  assembly,  in  the  scanty  robes 

Of  penury  half  wrapt,  who  well  might  tell 

Of  ministrations  at  their  couch  of  woe, 

Of  toil-spent  nights,  and  timely  charities, 

Uncounted,  save  in  heaven. 

'Tis  well !— 'Tis  well ! 
The  parted  benefactor  justly  claims 
Such  obsequies.     Yet  let  the  Gospel  breathe 
Its  strain  sublime.     A  hallow'd  hand  hath  cull'd 
From  the  deep  melodies  of  David's  lyre, 
And  from  the  burning  eloquence  of  Paul, 
Balm  for  the  mourner's  wound.     But  there  's  a  group 
Within  whose  sacred  home,  yon  lifeless  form 
Had  been  the  centre  of  each  tender  hope, 
The  soul  of  every  joy.     Affections  pure 
And  patriarchal  hospitality, 
Like  household  deities,  presiding  spread 
Their  wings  around,  making  the  favour'd  cell 
As  bright  a  transcript  of  lost  Eden's  bliss, 
As  beams  below.     Now  round  that  shaded  hearth 
The  polish'd  brow  of  radiant  beauty  droops, 
Like  the  pale  lily-flower,  by  pitiless  storms 
Press'd  and  surcharg'd.     There  too  are  sadden'd  eyes 
More  eloquent  than  words,  and  bursting  hearts ; 
Earth  may  not  weigh  such  grief,     'Tis  heal'd  in  Heaven. 


MRS.    SIGOUHNEV'S    POEMS.  55 

THOUGHTS  FOR  MOURNERS. 

"  In  wrath  he  remembereth  mercy." 

Ye  say  'tis  Mercy  that  doth  rend 

Of  Hope  the  healthful  root  1 
The  visitation  of  a  Friend 

That  blights  affliction's  fruit  1 
A  tender  florist's  care,  that  pours 

The  riven  blossoms  round, 
And  strews  the  richest,  fairest  flowers 

To  perish  on  the  ground  1 
Yon  tree,  that  from  the  noon-day  heat 

Did  shield  the  traveler's  head, 
And  when  the  tempest  fiercely  beat 

A  sheltering  shadow  spread, 
Whose  boughs  reviving  fragrance  cast 

O'er  all  the  sons  of  ill, 
Behold  it  smitten  'neath  the  blast, 

Say  ye  'twas  Mercy  still  ? 
Yea  Mercy  !  Not  that  erring  love 

Which  man  to  man  extends, 
But  His  high  discipline  above 

Who  pain  with  wisdom  blends. 
Beyond  the  cloud,  the  pang,  the  tomb 

Of  this  terrestrial  clod, 
Where  trees  of  glory  ever  bloom 

Fast  by  the  throne  of  God, 
Ye  in  the  page  of  Heaven  may  read 

With  seraph  students  blest, 
How  Sorrow's  sternest  teachings  lead 

To  everlasting  rest. 


56  Mas.  sigourney's  poems. 


MEETING  OF  THE   SUSQUEHANNAH   WITH  THE 
LACKAWANNA. 

Rush  on  glad  stream,  in  thy  power  and  pride, 

To  claim  the  hand  of  thy  promis'd  bride  ; 

She  doth  haste  from  the  realm  of  the  darken'd  mine, 

To  mingle  her  murmur'd  vows  with  thine  ; 

Ye  have  met, — ye  have  met,  and  the  shores  prolong 

The  liquid  tone  of  your  nuptial  song. 

Methinks  ye  wed,  as  the  white  man's  son, 

And  the  child  of  the  Indian  king  have  done  ; 

I  saw  thy  bride,  as  she  strove  in  vain, 

To  cleanse  her  brow  from  the  carbon  stain, 

But  she  brings  thee  a  dowry  so  rich  and  true 

That  thy  love  must  not  shrink  from  the  tawny  hue. 

Her  birth  was  rude,  in  a  mountain  cell, 
And  her  infant  freaks  there  are  none  to  tell ; 
The  path  of  her  beauty  was  wild  and  free, 
And  in  dell  and  forest  she  hid  from  thee, 
But  the  day  of  her  fond  caprice  is  o'er, 
And  she  seeks  to  part  from  thy  breast  no  more. 

Pass  on  in  the  joy  of  thy  blended  tide, 
Thro'  the  land  where  the  blessed  Miquon*  died  ; 
No  rod  man's  blood,  with  its  guilty  stain, 
Hath  cried  unto  Ciod  from  that  broad  domain, — 
With  the  seeds  of  peace  they  have  sown  the  soil, 
Bring  a  harvest  of  wealth  for  their  hour  of  toil. 

*  A  name  given  by  the  Aborigines  to  their  friend  William  Penn. 


MBS.    SIGOURNEY'S    POEMS.  57 

On,  on,  through  the  vale  where  the  brave  ones  sleep, 

Where  the  waving  foliage  is  rich  and  deep  ; 

I  have  stood  on  the  mountain  and  roam'd  thro'  the  glen 

To  the  beautiful  homes  of  the  western  men, 

Yet  nought  in  that  realm  of  enchantment  could  see, 

So  fair,  as  the  vale  of  Wyoming  to  me. 


POETRY. 

Morn  on  her  rosy  couch  awoke, 

Enchantment  led  the  hour, 
And  mirth  and  music  drank  the  dews 

That  freshen'd  Beauty's  flower, 
Then  from  her  bower  of  deep  delight, 

I  heard  a  young  girl  sing, 
"  Oh,  speak  no  ill  of  poetry, 

For  'tis  a  holy  thing." 

The  Sun  in  noon-day  heat  rose  high, 

And  on  with  heaving  breast, 
I  saw  a  weary  pilgrim  toil 

Unpitied  and  unblest, 
Yet  still  in  trembling  measures  flow'd 

Forth  from  a  broken  string, 
"  Oh,  speak  no  ill  of  poetry, 

For  'tis  a  holy  thing." 

'Twas  night,  and  Death  the  curtains  drew, 

'Mid  agony  severe, 
While  there  a  willing  spirit  went 

Home  to  a  glorious  sphere, 


5Q  MRS.  sigourney's  poems. 

Yet  still  it  sigh'd,  even  when  was  spread 
The  waiting  Angel's  wing, 

"  Oh,  speak  no  ill  of  poetry, 
For  'tis  a  holy  thing." 


THE  COMING  OF  CHRIST. 

For  unto  you  is  born  this  day,  a  Saviour,  who  is  Christ  the  Lord. 

Behold  !  the  ancient  darkness  breaks 

That  o'er  the  nations  lay, 
And  morn  with  purple  banner  wakes, 

Bright  herald  of  the  day  ; 
Hush'd  are  hoarse  Sinai's  thunders  dread, 

Descending  Angels  sing, 
And  crush'd  Judea  lifts  the  head, 

To  hail  her  promis'd  king. 

The  harp  of  prophecy,  so  long 

By  sacred  impulse  fir'd, 
Hath  breath'd  its  last  entrancing  song, 

And  with  the  seer  expired. 
Symbol  and  type,  whose  linked  chain 

At  Eden's  bower  began, 
No  more  in  dim  and  shadowy  strain 

Announce  the  truth  to  man. 

Messiah  comes  !  what  throne  of  state 

Shall  win  his  glorious  sway  1 
Throw  wide  Oh  Earth  !  thy  loftiest  gate 

To  give  the  Highest  way  : 


MRS.    SIGOUBNEY  S    POEMS.  5Q 

Yet  not  to  men  of  royal  birth, 

Not  to  the  sons  of  fame, 
Not  in  the  sceptred  pomp  of  earth, 

The  meek  Redeemer  came. 

No. — Turn  to  Nazareth's  noteless  bound, 

Turn  to  the  lowliest  train 
Who  slowly  o'er  that  thronging-  ground 

Press  on  with  pilgrim  pain, 
Turn  to  the  manger,  scorn'd  and  lone, 

By  humblest  inmates  trod, 
And  in  devotion's  deepest  tone 

Revere  the  Son  of  God. 


ON  THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  YEAR  1832. 

The  Year  is  past,  whose  hand  hath  led 

Oft  to  the  chamber  of  the  dead, 

Whose  track  amid  remember'd  time, 

In  many  a  race,  and  many  a  clime, 

Is  mark'd  by  agonies  and  fears,* 

And  clustering  graves  and  mourners  tears. 

But  we,  the  spar'd  the  favor'd  band, 
Who  saw  Destruction's  Angel  nigh, 
Felt  his  dark  pinion  rushing  by, 
Yet  still  among  the  living  stand, 
How  heed  we  Heaven's  protecting  hand  ? 
Marks  every  day  its  annal  fare, 
With  faithful  deeds  of  pious  care  1 
And  bears  each  moment  as  it  flies, 
Some  grateful  message  to  the  skies  7 

*  Alluding  to  the  cholera. 


MRS.    S1G0URKEY  S   POEMS. 

Oh  parted  year  ! — how  many  a  name 
High  on  the  sun-bright  lists  of  fame, 
Thou,  with  thy  black  and  blotting  pen 
Hast  stricken  from  the  scroll  of  men. 

I  see  a  train  of  funeral  gloom, 
On  Auburn's  mount,  a  new  made  tomb, 
Thou,  nurtur'd  'neath  a  German  sky, 
With  noble  form,  and  piercing  eye, 
Why  cam'st  thou  to  our  vales, — to  die  ? 
We  hop'd  thy  wisdom  to  explore, 
And  calmly  weigh  thy  treasur'd  lore, 
And  feel,  while  fled  the  glowing  hour, 
Of  eloquence,  and  truth  the  power, 
But  no  ! — we  mourn  thy  sever'd  span, 
Spurzheim  ! — the  friend  of  mind  and  man, 
And  sadly  give  thy  native  skies, 
More  than  a  stranger's  sympathies. 

Another  knell  is  on  the  blast, 
And  art  thou  gone,  the  last, — the  last, 
Our  only  link  that  bound  sublime 
The  present,  to  the  ancient  time? 
Sage  of  pure  mind,  and  patriot  hand, 
The  last  of  that  illustrious  band, 
Who  in  the  day  of  fear  and  blood 
Firm  round  their  cradled  country  stood, 
With  diamond  Egis  dar'd  the  strife, 
And  gave  their  signet  for  her  life, 
Carroll ! — though  many  a  year  had  shed 
Its  whiteness  o'er  thy  reverend  head, 
Yet  as  the  Oak,  when  storms  divide 
Its  lofty  compeers  from  its  side, 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS.  61 

Is  held  more  sacred^  more  sublime, 
For  every  gather'd  tint  of  time  ; 
So  we,  with  pride,  thy  crown  survey'd, 
And  drew  the  stranger  to  thy  shade. 

Fain  had  we  brought  our  babes  to  thee, 
And  bow'd  them  at  thy  patriarch-knee, 
Thy  blessing  on  their  heads  to  crave, 
But  thou  art  resting  in  thy  grave, 
Yes, — thou  art  safe  from  storms,  and  we, 
Still  ride  upon  a  boisterous  sea. 

Come, — to  yon  consecrated  ground, 
Where  in  each  nook  and  hillock  round, 

Some  bleeding  heart  its  gold  hath  sow'd, — 
And  rest  thee  on  this  hallow'd  mound 

Where  many  a  tear  hath  flow'd. 
Cold  o'er  its  snows  the  moon-beams  shine, — 
Rever'd  Cornelius  !  is  it  thine  1 
Oh  !  smitten  in  thy  glory's  prime, 
From  polar  zone  to  tropic  clime, 
Thy  name  is  where  the  heathen  sees 
Salvation's  banner  on  the  breeze, 
And  mingles  with  their  grieving  prayer 
Who  speak  a  Saviour's  message  there. 

The  wandering  red  man  hears  its  tone, 
And  starts  amid  the  forest  lone, 
Or  from  his  home's  poor  refuge  driven, 
An  outcast  'neath  the  face  of  Heaven, 
Turns  hopeless  toward  the  western  Sea, 
And  as  he  weeps,  remembers  thee. 
Oh  forest  brethren  !  long  distrest, 
6 


62  MRS-  sigourney's  poems. 

Unheard,  unanswering,  and  opprest, 
When  to  your  sad  and  earth-bow'd  eyes, 
Shall  such  another  friend  arise  1 
With  zeal  to  save  your  exil'd  throng-, 
With  breast  indignant  at  their  wrong  1 
When  shall  such  smile  of  heavenly  birth 
Beam  kindly  by  your  cabin-hearth  1 
Or  when  such  voice  of  angel-strain 
Breathe  pitying  o'er  your  souls  again  1 

Genius  the  dazzled  eye  may  blind, 
And  mystic  Science  awe  mankind, 
And  patriot  faith,  and  hoary  time, 
From  history  win  the  meed  sublime, 
But  thou, — whose  loss  on  distant  shores, 
Bereav'd  Benevolence  deplores, 
A  fame  like  thine,  so  pure,  so  deep, 
Earth's  tablet  is  too  frail  to  keep, 
And  the  proud  worlding's  vision  gay, 
Too  dull  its  semblance  to  survey. 
Oh  !  honor'd  more  than  speech  can  tell, 
True  Servant  of  the  Cross ! — Farewell ! 

Readers  and  Friends  ! — a  new-born  Year 
Inspires  for  you,  the  wish  sincere ; 
May  Heaven's  unmeasur'd  bounty  bless 
With  health,  and  peace,  and  happiness, 
A  cheerful  hearth,  a  fire-side  friend 
When  Winter's  wrathful  storms  descend, 
A  pious  joy  when  green-rob'd  Spring 
And  Summer  suns  their  offerings  bring, 
A  grateful  heart  'mid  Autumn's  store, 
Till  seasons  change  for  you  no  more. 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS.  Q% 


LADY  JANE  GREY. 

On  seeing  a  picture  representing  her  engaged  in  the  study  of  Plato. 

So  early  wise  !  Beauty  hath  been  to  thee 

No  traitor-friend,  to  steal  the  key 

Of  knowledge  from  thy  mind, 

Making  thee  gorgeous  to  the  eye, 

Flaunting  and  flushed  with  vanity, 

Yet  inly  blind. 

Hark  !  the  hunting-bugle  sounds, 

Thy  father's  park  is  gay, 
Stately  nobles  cheer  the  hounds, 

Soft  hands  the  coursers  sway, 
Haste  to  the  sport,  away  !  away  ! 
Youth,  and  mirth,  and  love  are  there, 
Lingerest  thou,  fairest,  of  the  fair, 
In  thy  lone  chamber  to  explore 

Ancient  Plato's  classic  lore] 
Old  Roger  Ascham's  gaze 

Is  fix'd  on  thee  with  fond  amaze  ; 
Doubtless  the  sage  doth  marvel  deep, 

That  for  philosophy  divine 
A  lady  could  decline 
The  pleasure  'mid  yon  pageant-train  to  sweep, 
The  glory  o'er  some  five-barr'd  gate  to  leap, 
And  in  the  toil  of  reading  Greek 

Which  many  a  student  flies, 
Find  more  entrancing  rhetoric 

Than  Fashion's  page  supplies. 


64  MRS-  sigourney's  poems. 

Ah  sweet  Enthusiast !  happier  far  for  thee 
Had'stthou  thy  musing  intellectual  joy, 
Tho'  life  indulg'd  without  alloy, 
In  solitary  sanctity, 
Nor  dar'd  Ambition's  fearful  shrift, 
Nor  laid  thy  shrinking  hand  on  Edward's  fatal  gift. 

The  Crown  !  the  Crown  !  It  sparkles  on  thy  brow, 
I  see  Northumberland  with  joy  elate, 
And  low  !  thy  haughty  sire  doth  bow 
Honoring  thy  high  estate, 
She  too,  of  Royal  Tudor's  line, 
Who  at  her  early  bridal  shone 
Resplendent  on  the  Gallic  throne 
Humbleth  her  knee  to  thine, 
She,  the  austerely  beautiful,  whose  eye 
Check'd  thy  timid  infancy 
Until  thy  heart's  first  buds  folded  their  leaves  to  die, 
Homage  to  her  meek  daughter  pays, 
Yet,  soolh  to  say,  one  fond  embrace, 
One  kiss,  such  as  the  peasant-mother  gives 
When  on  its  evening  bed  her  child  she  lays, 
Had  dearer  been  to  thee,  than  all  their  courtly  phrase. 

The  Tower  !  the  Tower  !  thou  bright-hair'd  beauteous  one  \ 
There,  where  the  captive's  breath 
Had  sigh'd  itself  in  bitterness  away, 
Where  iron  nerves  had  withered  one  by  one, 
And  the  sick  eye  shut  from  the  glorious  sun 

Hath  grop'd  o'er  those  grim  walls  till  idiocy 
Made  life  like  death, 
There  must  thy  resting  be  1 


MRS.    SIGOCRNEY's    POEMS.  65 

Not  long  !  Not  long  !   What  savage  band 

'Neath  thy  grated  window  bears 
The  headless  form,  the  lifeless  hand 
Of  him,  the  magic  of  whose  love  could  charm  away  thy  cares  1 
Guilford  !  thy  husband  !  yet  the  gushing  tear 
Scarce  flows  to  mourn  his  fate  severe, 
Thy  pious  thought  doth  rise 
To  those  unclouded  skies, 
When  he,  amid  the  angel  train 
Doth  for  thy  coming  wait,  to  part  no  more  again. 

The  Scaffold  !  Must  it  be  !  Stern  England's  Queen 
Hast  thou  such  doom  decreed  J 
Dwells  Draco's  soul  beneath  a  woman's  mien  ? 
Must  guileless  youth  and  peerless  beauty  bleed  ? 
Away  !  Away  !  I  will  not  see  the  deed  ! 
Fresh  drops  of  crimson  stain  the  new-fall'n  snow, 
The  wintry  winds  wail  fitfully  and  low  ; — 
But  the  meek  victim  is  not  there, 
Far  from  this  troubled  scene, 
High  o'er  the  tyrant  Queen, 
She  finds  that  amaranthine  crown,  which  sinless  seraphs  wear. 


6* 


06  MRS.   SIGOUHNEY's    POEMS. 

FEMALE   EDUCATION. 

Addressed  to  a  South  American  Poet. 

Thou,  of  the  living  lyrd, 

Thou,  of  the  lavish  clime, 
Whose  mountains  mix  their  lightning-fire 

With  the  storm-cloud  sublime, 
We,  of  thy  sister-land, 

The  empire  of  the  free, 
Joy  as  those  patriot-breasts  expand 

With  genial  Liberty. 

Thy  flowers  their  fragrant  breast 

Unfold  to  catch  its  ray, 
And  nature's  velvet-tissued  vest 

With  brighter  tint  is  gay, 
More  blest  thy  rivers  roll 

Full  tribute  to  the  Sea, 
And  even  Woman's  cloister'd  soul 

Walks  forth  among  the  free. 

Aid  with  thy  tuneful  strain 

Her  bold,  adventurous  way, 
Bid  the  long-prisoned  mind  attain 

A  sphere  of  dazzling  day, 
Bid  her  unpinion'd  foot 

The  cliffs  of  knowledge  climb, 
And  search  for  Wisdom's  sacred  root 

That  mocks  the  blight  of  time. 


MRS.  SIGOUBVEt's  POEM9.  67 

Say, — "Break  oblivion's  sleep 

And  toil  with  florist's  art, 
To  plant  the  germs  of  virtue  deep 

In  childhood's  fruitful  heart, 
To  thee,  the  babe  is  given 

Fair  from  its  glorious  Sire, 
Go, — nurse  it  for  the  King  of  Heaven, 

And  He  will  pay  the  hire." 


THE  HALF-CENTURY   SERMON. 

Look  back,  look  back,  ye  gray-haird  worshippers, 

Who  to  this  hill-top,  fifty  years  ago 

Came  up  with  solemn  joy  ;  withdraw  the  folds 

Which  curtaining  Time  hath  gather'd  o'er  the  scene, 

And  show  its  coloring.     The  dark  cloud  of  war 

Faded  to  fitful  sun-light,  on  the  ear, 

The  rumor  of  red  battle  died  away, 

And  there  was  peace  in  Zion.     So  a  throng 

O'er  a  faint  carpet  of  the  Spring's  first  green 

Were  seen  in  glad  procession  hasting  on, 

To  set  a  watchman  on  these  sacred  walls. 

Each  eye  upon  his  consecrated  brow 

Was  fondly  fix'd,  for  in  its  pallid  hue, 

In  its  deep,  thought-worn,  spiritual  lines, 

They  trac'd  the  mission  of  the  Crucified, 

The  hope  of  Israel.     High  the  anthem  swell'd, 

Ascribing  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 

Who  in  his  bounteous  goodness  thus  vouchsaf 'd 

To  beautify  his  temple. 

The  same  strain 
Riseth  once  more  ;  but  where  are  they  who  pour'd 


68  MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS. 

Its  tones  melodious,  on  that  festal  day  ] 
Young  men  and  maidens  of  the  tuneful  lip, 
The  bright  in  beauty,  and  the  proud  in  strength, 
With  bosoms  fluttering  to  illusive  hope, 
Where  are  they  1     Can  ye  tf  11,  ye  hoary  Ones, 
Who  few,  and  feebly  leaning  on  your  staves 
Bow  down,  where  erst  with  manhood's  lofty  port 
Ye  tower'd  as  columns  ]     They  have  sunk  away, 
Brethren  and  sisters,  from  your  empty  grasp 
Like  bubbles  on  the  pool,  and  ye  are  left, 
With  life's  long  lessons  furrow'd  on  your  brow. 
Change  worketh  all  around  you.     The  lithe  twig 
That  in  your  boyhood  ye  did  idly  bend 
Maketh  broad  shadow,  and  the  forest-king 
Arching  majestic  o'er  your  school-day  sports, 
Mouidereth,  to  sprout  no  more.     The  little  babe, 
Ye  as  a  plaything  dandled,  of  whose  frame 
Prrchance  ye  spake,  as  most  exceeding  frail 
And  prone  to  perish  like  the  flower  of  grass, 
Doth  nurse  his  children's  children  on  his  knee. 
— But  still  your  ancient  Shepherd's  voice  ye  hear, 
Tho'  age  hath  quell'd  its  power,  and  well  those  tones 
Of  serious,  saintly  tenderness  do  stir 
The  springs  of  love  and  reverence.     As  your  guide 
He  in  the  heavenward  path  hath  firmly  walk'd 
Bearing  your  joys  and  sorrows  in  his  breast, 
And  on  his  prayers.     He  at  your  household  hearths 
Hath  spoke  his  Master's  message,  while  your  babes 
Listening  imbib'd,  as  blossoms  drink  the  dew  ; 
And  when  your  dead  were  buried  from  your  sight, 
Was  he  not  there  1 

His  scatter'd  locks  are  white 
With  the  hoar-frost  of  time,  but  in  his  soul 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS.  69 

There  is  no  Winter.     He,  the  uncounted  gold 

Of  many  a  year's  experience  richly  spreads 

To  a  new  generation,  and  methinks 

With  high  prophetic  brow  doth  stand  sublime 

Like  Moses  'tween  the  living  and  the  dead 

To  make  atonement.     God's  unclouded  smile 

Sustain  thee  Patriarch  !  like  a  flood  of  light 

Still  brightening,  till  with  those  whom  thou  hast  taught 

And  warn'd  in  wisdom  and  with  weeping  love 

Led  to  the  brink  of  Calvary's  cleansing  stream, 

Thou  strike  the  victor-harp  o'er  sin  and  death. 


DEATH  OF  THE  WIFE  OF  A  CLERGYMAN,  DURING 
THE  SICKNESS  OF  HER  HUSBAND. 

Dark  sorrow  brooded  o'er  the  Pastor's  home, 
The  prayer  was  silent,  and  the  loving  group 
That  sang  their  hymn  of  praise  at  even  and  morn 
Now  droop'd  in  pain, — or  with  a  noiseless  step 
Tended  the  sick.     It  was  a  time  of  woe  : 
Days  measur'd  out  in  anguish,  and  drear  nights 
Mocking  the  eye  that  waited  for  the  dawn. 

They,  who  from  youth  by  hallow'd  vows  conjoin'd 
Had  borne  life's  burdens  with  united  arm, 
And  side  by  side,  its  adverse  fortunes  foil'd, 
Apart, — an  agonizing  warfare  fought 
WTith  Nature's  stern  destroyer.     Tidings  past 
From  couch  to  couch,— how  stood  the  doubtful  strife 
'Twixt  life  and  death.     They  might  not  lay  their  hand 
Upon  each  other's  throbbing  brow, — or  breathe 
The  words  of  comfort,  for  Disease  had  set 
A  gulf  between  them. 


70  MRS.    SIGOURNEy's   POEMS. 

Hark  !  what  sound  appall'd 
The  suffering  husband  "J  'Twas  a  mourner's  sob 
Beside  his  bed. 

"  My  Mother  will  not  speak, 
They  say  she  's  dead." 

Art  thou  the  messenger, 
Poor  boy !   from  whom  the  love  that  gently  sooth'd 
Thy  cradle  moan, — that  'mid  thy  sports  did  trace 
The  great  Creator's  name,  and  on  thro'  life 
'Mid  all  its  wanderings  and  adversities 
Would  still  have  clung  to  thee  untired,  unchang'd, 
Is  blotted  out  forever  1  Thou  dost  tell 
A  loss  thou  canst  not  measure. 

She  the  friend, 
The  Mother,  imag'd  in  those  daughter's  hearts, 
First,  dearest,  best-beloved, — who  joy'd  to  walk 
The  meek  companion  of  a  Man  of  God 
Hath  given  her  hand  to  that  Destroyer's  grasp 
Who  rifleth  the  clay  cottage, — sending  forth 
The  immortal  habitant.     Fearless  she  laid 
Earth's  vestments  by. 

And  thou,  whose  tenderest  trust 
Did  strongly  rivet  on  that  marble  form, 
Whose  confidence  in  that  cold  breast  was  seal'd 
So  fearlessly  and  long,  lift  up  thy  soul, 
"  She  is  not  here, — but  risen."     Show  the  faith 
Which  thou  hast  preach'd  to  others,  by  its  power 
In  the  dark  night  of  trouble.     Take  the  cross, 
And  from  thy  bruised  heart  pour  freshly  forth 
The  spirit  of  thy  Lord,  teaching  thy  flock 
To  learn  Jehovah's  lessons, — and  be  still. 


Mns.  sigourney's  poems.  71 


AGRICULTURE. 
The  hero  hath  his  fame, 

'Tis  blazon'd  on  his  tomb, 
But  earth  withholds  her  glad  acclaim, 

And  frowns  in  silent  gloom  : 
His  footsteps  on  her  breast 

Were  like  the  Simoom's  blast, 
And  Death's  dark  ravages  attest 

Where'er  the  Conqueror  past. 

By  him  her  harvests  sank, 

Her  famish'd  flocks  were  slain, 
And  from  the  fount  where  thousands  drank 

Came  gushing  blood  like  rain  ; 
For  him  no  requiem-sigh 

From  vale  or  grove  shall  swell, 
But  flowers  exulting  lift  their  eye, 

Where  the  proud  spoiler  fell. 

Look  at  yon  peaceful  bands 

Who  guide  the  glittering  share, 
The  quiet  labor  of  whose  hands 

Doth  make  Earth's  bosom  fair, 
For  them  the  rich  perfume 

From  ripen'd  fields  doth  flow, 
They  bid  the  desert  rose  to  bloom, 

The  wild  with  plenty  glow. 

Ah  !  happier  thus  to  prize 

The  humble,  rural  shade, 
And  like  our  Father  in  the  skies 

Blest  Nature's  work  to  aid, 


72  MRS-  sigourney's  poems. 

Than  famine  and  despair 
Among  mankind  to  spread, 

And  Earth  our  mother's  curse  to  bear 
Down  to  the  silent  dead. 


DEATH  OF  BEDA, 

"Though  the  last  illness  of  this  learned  and  venerable  man  was 
severe,  he  spent  the  evening  of  his  death,  in  translating  the  Gospel  of 
St.  John  into  the  Saxon  language.  When  told  by  his  amanuensis  that 
there  remained  but  one  more  chapter,  he  urged  him  to  proceed  rapidly, 
saying  that  he  had  no  time  to  lose. 

"  'Master,  there  is  now  but  one  sentence  wanting.' 

"  'Haste  thee  to  write  it.' 

"  '  Master,  it  is  done.' 

"  '  Thou  hast  spoken  truth — it  is  done.  Take  now  my  head  between 
your  hands,  and  move  me,  for  it  pleaseth  me  to  sit  over  against  the 
place  where  I  was  wont  to  pray,  and  where  now  sitting,  I  would  yet 
invoke  the  Father.' 

"  Being  seated  according  to  his  desire,  on  the  floor  of  his  cell,  he 
said,  '  Glory  be  to  the  Father,  and  to  the  Son,  and  to  the  Holy  Ghost.' 
And,  pronouncing  the  last  word,  he  expired." 

Northumbrian  breezes  freshly  blew 

Around  a  cloistered  pile, 
And  Tyne,  high-swoln  with  vernal  rains, 

Was  murmuring  near  the  while ; 
And  there,  within  his  studious  cell, 

The  man  of  mighty  mind, 
His  cowled  and  venerable  brow 

With  sickness  pale,  reclined. 

Yet  still,  to  give  God's  word  a  voice, 

To  bless  the  British  Isles, 
He  labored,  while  inspiring  faith 

Sustained  the  toil  with  smiles  : 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS.  73 

Still  o'er  the  loved  disciple's  page 

His  fervent  spirit  hung, 
Regardless  though  the  grasp  of  pain 

Each  shuddering  nerve  unstrung. 

"  Speed  on  !"  Then  flew  the  writer's  pen 

With  grief  and  fear  perplext, 
For  Death's  sure  footstep  nearer  drew 

With  each  receding  text. 
The  prompting  breath  more  faintly  came — 

"  Speed  on  ! — his  form  I  see — 
That  awful  messenger  of  God, 

Who  may  not  stay  for  me." 

"  Master,  His  done."     "  Thou  speakest  well, 

Life  with  thy  lines  kept  pace" — 
They  bare  him  to  the  place  of  prayer, 

The  death-dew  on  his  face  ; 
And  there,  while  o'er  the  gasping  breast 

The  last  keen  torture  stole, 
With  the  high  watch-word  of  the  skies, 

Went  forth  that  sainted  soul. 


74  MRS<  sigoubney's  poems. 


MISSIONS  TO  AFRICA. 


Oh  Afric  !  famed  in  story, 

The  nurse  of  Egypt's  might, 
A  stain  is  on  thy  glory, 

And  quenched  thine  ancient  light. 
Stern  Carthage  made  the  pinion 

Of  Rome's  strong  eagle  cower, 
But  brief  was  her  dominion, 

And  lost  her  trace  of  power. 

And  thou,  the  stricken  hearted, 

The  scorned  of  every  land, 
The  diadem  departed 

Dost  stretch  thy  fettered  hand  ; 
How  long  shall  misery  wring  thee, 

And  none  arise  to  save  ] 
And  every  billow  bring  thee 

Sad  tidings  from  the  slave  1 

Is  not  thy  night  of  weeping, 

Thy  time  of  darkness  o'er  1 
Is  not  Heaven's  justice  keeping 

Its  vigil  round  thy  shore  I 
I  see  a  wTatch-light  burning 

High  on  thy  mountain  tower, 
To  guide  thy  sons  returning 

In  Freedom's  glorious  power. 

Thy  pyramids  aspiring, 
Unceasing  wonder  claim, 

And  still  the  world  admiring 
Demands  their  founder's  name  ; 


MRS.    SIGOUBNEY'S    POEMS.  75 

But  more  enduring-  glory- 
Shall  settle  on  his  head 

Who  blest  Salvation's  story- 
Shall  o'er  thy  desert  spread. 


THE   ORDINATION. 

Up  to  thy  master's  work  !  for  thou  art  sworn 

To  do  His  bidding,  till  the  hand  of  Death 

Strike  off  thine  armor. — Not  among  the  gaudes, 

And  pomps  and  pleasares  of  this  fleeting  world 

Is  thy  vocation. — Thy  deep  vow  denies 

To  hoard  its  gold, — or  truckle  for  its  smile, 

Or  bind  its  blood-stain'd  laurel  on  thy  brow, — 

— A  nobler  field  is  thine. — The  soul ! — The  soul  ! — 

That  is  thy  province, — that  mysterious  thing, 

Which  hath  no  limit  from  the  walls  of  sense. — 

No  chill  from  hoary  Time, — with  pale  decay 

No  fellowship, — but  shall  stand  forth  unchang'd 

Unscorch'd  amid  the  resurrection  fires, 

To  bear  its  boundless  lot  of  good  or  ill, 

And  thou  dost  take  authority  to  aid 

This  pilgrim-essence  to  a  throne  in  Heaven 

Among  the  glorious  harpers,  and  the  ranks 

Of  radiant  seraphim  and  cherubim, 

Thy  business  is  with  that  which  cannot  die, — 

Whose  subtle  thought  the  untravel'd  universe 

Spans  on  swift  wing,  from  slumbering  ages  sweeps 

Their  buried  treasures,  scans  the  vault  of  Heaven, 

Weighing  its  orbs  of  light,  and  pointing  out 


76  MRS-  sigourney's  poems. 

Their  trackless  pathway  through  the  blue  expanse, 

Foils  the  red  comet  in  its  flaming  speed, 

And  aims  to  read  the  secrets  of  its  God, 

Yet  thou  a  son  of  clay,  art  privileg'd 

To  make  thy  Saviour's  image  brighter  still, 

In  this  majestic  soul. 

Give  God  the  praise 

That  thou  art  counted  worthy, — and  lay  down 

Thy  lip  in  dust. — Bethink  thee  of  its  loss, — 

For  He  whose  sighs  on  Olivet,  whose  pangs 

On  Calvary,  best  speak  its  priceless  worth 

Saith  that  it  may  be  lost.     Should  it  sin  on 

Till  the  last  hour  of  grace  and  penitence 

Is  meted  out,  ah  !  what  would  it  avail 

Though  the  whole  world  with  all  its  pomp  and  power 

And  plumage,  were  its  own  1  what  were  its  gain 

When  the  brief  hour-glass  of  this  life  shall  fail 

And  leave  remorse,  no  grave, — despair,  no  hope  1 

Up,  blow  thy  trumpet,  sound  the  loud  alarm 

To  those  who  sleep  in  Zion. — Boldly  warn 

To  'scape  their  condemnation,  o'er  whose  head 

Age  after  age  of  misery  hath  roll'd 

Who  from  their  prison-house  look  up  and  see 

Heaven's  golden  gate, — and  to  its  watchmen  cry 

"What  of  the  night?"  while  the  dread  answer  falls 

With  fearful  echo  down  the  unfathom'd  depths  : 

"  Eternity  /" 

Should  one  of  these  lost  souls 

Amid  its  tossings  utter  forth  thy  name, 

As  one  who  might  have  pluck'd  it  from  the  pit, 

Thou  man  of  God  !  would  there  not  be  a  burst 

Of  tears  in  Heaven  1 


MBS.    SIGOUBXEy's    POEMS.  77 

Oh  !  live  the  life  of  prayer 
The  life  of  faith  in  the  meek  Son  of  God 
The  life  of  tireless  labor  for  His  sake : 
So  may  the  angel  of  the  Covenant  bring 
Thee  to  thy  home  in  bliss,  with  many  a  gem 
To  glow  forever  in  thy  Master's  crown. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  GOING  HOME. 

Occasioned  by  the  words  of  a  dying  friend, — "before  mornins  I 
shall  be  at  home.1' 

Home  !  Home  !  its  glorious  threshhold 

Through  parted  clouds  I  see, 
Those  mansions  by  a  Saviour  bought, 

Where  I  have  long'd  to  be, 
And  !o  !  a  bright  unnumbered  host 

O'erspread  the  heavenly  plain, 
Not  one  is  silent — every  harp 

Doth  swell  the  adoring  strain. 

Fain  would  my  soul  be  praising 

Amid  that  sinless  throng, 
Fain  would  my  voice  be  raising 

Their  everlasting  song, — 
Hark  !     Hark  !  they  bid  me  hasten 

To  leave  the  fainting  clay, 
Friends  !  hear  ye  not  the  welcome  sound ! 

"  Arise,  and  come  away." 

Before  the  dawn  of  morning 

These  lower  skies  shall  light, 
I  shall  have  joined  their  company 

Above  this  realm  of  night, 


78  MBS.    SIGOURNEV'S   POEMS. 

Give  thanks,  my  mourning  dear  ones, 
Thanks  to  the  Eternal  King, 

Who  crowns  my  soul  with  victory 
And  plucks  from  Death  his  sting. 


FRIENDSHIP  WITH   THE   DEAD, 

Eye  of  the  Dead  !  thy  sacred  beam 

Is  with  me,  wheresoe'er  I  rove, 
As  moonlight  tints  the  mirror'd  stream, 

With  Heaven's  reflected  smile  of  love. 

I  stood  amid  thy  kindred  band, 

Explor'd  thy  haunts  of  classic  thought, 

And  in  thy  treasur'd  casket  scann'd 

The  polish'd  gems  by  Genius  wrought  ; 

And  still,  thy  breath  ethereal  fann'd 
In  that  blest  home,  affection's  flame, 

While  strongly  from  the  better  land, 
Thy  pure,  unearthly  promptings  came. 

The  living  eye  on  ours  may  gaze, 

The  warm  lip  pour  the  wealth  of  mind, 

Brow  beam  on  brow  congenial  rays, 
And  hand  in  hand  be  firmly  join'd, 

But  nearer,  though  unseen  may  flit 
The  hovering  seraph's  wing  serene, 

And  soul  to  soul  be  closer  knit 

Even  with  this  veil  of  flesh  between. 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY's   POEMS.  79 

Eye  of  the  dead  !  with  guardian  ray 

Like  star  amid  the  arch  of  night, 
Still  deign  to  guide  my  pilgrim-way 

To  realms  of  uncreated  light. 


DEATH  OF  THE  REV.  GORDON  HALL. 

The  healer  droops, — no  more  his  skill 

May  ease  the  sufferer's  moan, — 
The  hand  that  sooth'd  another's  pang, 

Sinks  powerless  'neath  its  own  ; 
The  teacher  dies  ; — he  came  to  plant 

Deep  in  a  heathen  soil, 
The  germ  of  everlasting  life, 

He  faints  amid  the  toil. 

There  was  a  vision  of  the  Sea, 

That  pain'd  his  dying  strife, 
Why  stole  that  vision  o'er  his  soul, 

Thus  'mid  the  wreck  of  life? 
A  form,  by  holiest  love  endear'd 

There  rode  the  billowy  crest, 
And  tenderly  his  pallid  boys 

Were  folded  to  her  breast. 

Then  rose  the  long  remember'd  scenes 

Of  his  far,  native  bowers, 
The  white-spir'd  church,  the  mother's  hymn, 

And  boyhood's  clustering  flowers, 
And  strong  that  country  of  his  heart, 

The  green  and  glorious  West, 
Shar'd  in  the  parting  throb  of  love 

That  shook  the  dying  breast. 


80  MRS«  sigoueney's  poems. 

Brief  was  the  thought,  the  dream,  the  pang, 

For  high  Devotion  came, 
And  brought  the  martyr's  speechless  joy, 

And  wing'd  the  prayer  of  flame, 
And  stamp'd  upon  the  marble  face 

Heaven's  smile  serenely  sweet, 
And  bade  the  icy,  quivering  lip 

The  praise  of  God  repeat. 

Strange,  olive  brows  with  tears  were  wet, 

As  a  lone  grave  was  made, 
And  there,  'mid  Asia's  arid  sands 

Salvation's  herald  laid, 
But  bright  that  shroudless  clay  shall  burst 

From  its  uncoffin'd  bed, 
When  the  Archangel's  awful  trump 

Convenes  the  righteous  dead. 


IMPRISONMENT  FOR  DEBT. 

Why  do  ye  tear 
Yon  lingering  tenant  from  his  humble  home  1 
His  children  cling  about  him,  and  his  wife 
Regardless  of  the  wintry  storm,  doth  stand 
Watching  his  last,  far  footsteps  with  a  gaze 
Of  speechless  misery.     What  is  his  crime  1 
The  murderer's  steel  in  headlong  passion  rais'd  ? 
Or  the  red  flame,  in  stealthy  malice  touch'd 
To  some  unguarded  roof]     Ah  no,  ye  say 
His  crime  is  poverty. 

Disease,  perchance, 
Hath  paralyzed  his  arm,  or  adverse  skies 


Mtis.   sigoubney's  POEMS.  81 

Withheld  his  harvest,  or  the  thousand  ills 

That  throng  the  hard  lot  of  the  sons  of  toil 

Drank  up  his  spirit.     Ye  indeed  may  hold 

His  form  incarcerate,  but  will  that  repair 

The  trespass  on  your  purse  1     To  take  away 

The  means  of  labor,  yet  require  the  fruits 

Savoreth,  methinks,  of  Pharaoh's  policy. 

Doth  Themis  sanction  what  the  code  of  Christ 

Condemns  1     "  How  readest  thou  ?"     Are  there,  who  deem 

The  smallest*  portion  of  their  drossy  gold 

Full  counterpoise  for  liberty  and  health,  j 

And  God's  free  air,  and  home's  sweet  charities  ! 

'Mid  the  gay  circle  round  their  evening  fire 

Sit  they  in  luxury,  while  warbled  song, 

And  guest,  and  wine-cup  speed  the  flying  hours, 

Unmindful  of  the  nrison'd  one  who  droons 

Within  his  close  barr'd  cell,  or  of  the  storm 

That  hoarsely  round  his  distant  dwelling  sweeps, 

Where  she  who  in  a  lowly  bed  hath  laid 

Her  famish'd  babes,  kneels  shivering  at  their  side, 

Mingling  the  tear-gush  with  her  lonely  prayer  1 

— Revenge  may  draw  a  subsidy  from  pain, 

Wringing  stern  usury  from  woman's  woe, 

And  infancy's  distress  ;  but  is  it  well 

For  souls  that  hasten  to  a  dread  account 

Of  motive  and  of  deed  at  Heaven's  high  bar, 

To  break  their  Saviour's  law  ? 

*  Among  the  facts  embodied  in  the  deeply  interesting  Reports  of 
the  "Prison  Discipline  Society,"  it  is  related  that  in  the  city  of  Balti- 
more alone,  during  the  year  1829,  seven  hundred  and  twelve  persons 
suffered  imprisonment  lor  debts  under  the  sum  of  twenty  dollars  ;  that 
in  Philadelphia,  during  a  period  of  fifteen  months,  five  hundred  and 
eighty-four  were  imprisoned  for  sums  lower  than  five  dollars,  and  that 
one  man  for  a  debt  of  txco  cents,  lay  in  prison  thirty-two  days. 


MRS.   SIGOURNEY  S   POEMS. 

Up,  cleanse  yourselves 
From  this  dark  vestige  of  a  barbarous  age, 
Sons  of  the  Gospel's  everlasting  light ! 
Nor  let  a  brother  of  your  own  blest  clime 
Rear'd  in  your  very  gates,  participant 
Of  freedom  and  salvation's  birthright,  find 
Less  favor  than  the  heathen. 

It  would  seem 
That  man  who  for  the  fleeting  breath  he  draws 
Is  still  a  debtor  and  hath  nought  to  pay, 
He,  who  to  cancel  countless  sins  expects 
Unbounded  clemency,  'twould  seem  that  he 
Might  to  his  fellow-man  be  pitiful, 
And  show  that  mercy  which  himself  implores. 


SABBATH  EVENING  IN  THE   COUNTRY. 

Suggested  by  a  Picture. 

I've  seen  upon  the  City's  bound 

The  Sabbath  Evening  close, 
But  thoughtless  throngs  with  varied  sound 

Disturb'd  its  blest  repose  ; 
I've  mark'd  it  o'er  the  rural  scene 
Unfold  its  stainless  wing  serene 

While  hush'd  to  concord  sweet, 
Breeze,  grove,  and  dell  and  stream  combin'd 
To  sooth  that  silence  of  the  mind 

Which  woos  the  Paraclete. 


MRS.    SIGOURNEy's   POEMS.  83 

I  stood  beside  a  lowly  dome 

Where  peace  and  love  abode, 
And  fragrant  round  that  cottage  home 

The  breath  of  Summer  flow'd, 
Fresh  flowrets  through  the  casement  peer'd, 
The  sleeping  dog  no  harshness  fear'd 

His  master's  feet  beside, 
While  he,  in  true  contentment  blest, 
With  every  anxious  thought  at  rest, 

The  gathering  twilight  eyed. 

She  too,  his  friend  from  youth  to  age 

The  dearest  and  the  best, 
Gave  to  his  ear  that  sacred  page 

On  which  their  hope  did  rest, 
The  aiding  glass  was  o'er  her  eye, 
And  from  her  cheek  the  roseate  dye 

Of  brighter  years  did  part, 
But  her  calm  brow  that  beauty  spake 
Which  Time  more  exquisite  doth  make, 

The  beauty  of  the  heart. 

Fast  by  her  side,  with  blooming  face 

Her  gentle  daughter  rose, 
Nurtur'd  in  all  the  simple  grace 

Which  pious  care  bestows  ; 
Maiden  !  thou  hear'st  that  word  whose  power 
Can  give  thee  for  thy  trial-hour 

Strength  when  the  heart  doth  bow, 
Peace,  tho'  the  stricken  bosom  bleeds, 
Eternal  life  when  earth  recedes, 

Oh!  catch  its  spirit  now. 


84  MES-  sigourney's  poems. 

As  a  fond  Mother's  evening  kiss 

Doth  lull  her  weary  child, 
Kind  Nature  pour'd  a  smile  of  bliss 

Around  the  landscape  mild, 
But  though  in  love  to  all  she  spoke, 
Though  her  soft  tones  in  music  broke, 

Like  balm  her  breezes  stole, 
Yet  nothing  seem'd  of  joy  to  tell 
So  pure  as  in  that  lowly  cell 

The  Sabbath  of  the  Soul. 


"Keep  thy  heart  with  all  diligence."— King  Solomon. 

For  an  Album. 

'Tis  said  that  hearts  have  albums.     On  their  page 

Strong  Memory  writeth  with  a  diamond  pen, 

And  Hope  and  Fancy  throw  their  pencil  tints, 

And  Love  his  bright  creations.     It  were  rash 

To  trust  such  tablet  to  the  careless  hand, 

For  Vanity's  inscription.     Blot  or  stain 

Were  fearful  there,  since  pausing  Penitence 

Must  with  her  bitter  waters  cleanse  it  out. 

— The  deep  impressions  on  those  mystic  leaves 

Possess  mysterious  power.     Back  they  recall 

From  time's  dim  sepulchre  lost  Friendship's  smile, 

Bid  Grief's  long-slumbering  tides  suffuse  the  eye 

Or  wake  the  cold  pulse  to  the  thrill  of  joy. 

— Guard  thy  heart's  Album.     Of  its  slightest  trace 

Who  knoweth  the  full  import  1    It  may  help 

To  fashion  motive,  and  to  color  fate  ; 

Nor  canst  thou  tell  how  strong  a  thread  it  weaves 


MBS.    SIGOURNEy's    POEMS.  85 

Into  the  web  of  deathless  destiny 

Till  at  that  solemn  audit  thou  dost  stand 

Where  deed  and  thought  shall  find  their  perfect  weight, 

And  just  reward. 


MISTAKEN  GRIEF. 

'•There  the   wicked  cease  from   troubling,  and   there  the   weaxy 
are  at  rest."— Job. 

We  mourn  for  those  who  toil, 

The  wretch  who  ploughs  the  main, 
The  slave,  who  hopeless  tills  the  soil 

Beneath  the  stripe  and  chain  ; 
For  those  who  in  the  world's  hard  race, 

Overwearied  and  unblest, 
A  host  of  gliding  phantoms  chase, 

Why  mourn  for  those  who  rest  ? 

We  mourn  for  those  who  .'in, 

Bound  in  the  tempter's  snare, 
Whom  syren  pleasure  beckoneth  in 

To  prisons  of  despair, — 
Whose  hearts  by  whirlwind  passiona  torn 

Are  wreck'd  on  folly's  shore, 
But  why  in  anguish  should  we  mourn 

For  those  who  sin  no  more  ? 

We  mourn  for  those  who  weep, 

Whom  stern  afflictions  bend, 

Despairing  o'er  the  lowly  sleep 

Of  lover  or  of  friend, 
8 


8'8  MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS. 

But  they  who  Jordan's  swelling-  tide 
No  more  are  eall'd  to  stem, 

Whose  tears  the  hand  of  God  hath  dried 
Why  should  ice  mourn  for  them  ? 


THE    DEAF,   DUMB     AND     BLIND   GIRL     OF    THE 
AMERICAN  ASYLUM  AT  HARTFORD,  CON. 

See — while  her  mute  companions  share 
Those  joys  which  ne'er  await  the  blind, 

A  moral  night  of  deep  despair 

Descending,  wraps  her  lonely  mind. 

Yet  deem  not,  though  so  dark  her  path 
Heaven  strew'd  no  comfort  o'er  her  lot, 

Or  in  her  bitter  cup  of  wrath 

The  healing  drop  of  balm  forgot. 

No  !  still  with  unambitious  mind 

The  needle's  patienf.  ta?k  to  ply, 
At  the  full  board  her  pla~?  to  find, 

Or  close  in  sleep  the  placid  eye, 

With  Order's  unobtrusive  charm 

Her  simple  wardrobe  to  dispose, 
To  press  of  guiding  care  the  arm, 

And  rove  where  autumn's  bounty  flows, 

With  touch  so  exquisi'  /  -  true 

That  vision  stands  a.         ih'd  by, 
To  recognize  with  ardor  c    i 

Some  friend  or  benefactor  nigh, — 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY'S    POEMS.  97 

Her  hand  'mid  childhood's  curls  to  place, 

From  fragrant  buds  the  breath  to  steal, 
Of  stranger-guest  the  brow  to  trace, 

Are  pleasures  left  for  her  to  feel. 

And  often  o'er  her  hour  of  thought 

Will  burst  a  laugh  of  wildest  glee, 
As  if  the  living  gems  she  caught 

On  wit's  fantastic  drapery, 

As  if  at  length,  relenting  skies 

In  pity  to  her  doom  severe, 
Had  bade  a  mimic  morning  rise, 

The  chaos  of  the  soul  to  cheer. 

But  who,  with  energy  divine, 

May  tread  that  undiscover'd  maze, 
Where  Nature  in  her  curtain'd  shrine 

The  strange  and  new-born  thought  surveys  ? 

Where  quick  perception  shrinks  to  find 

On  eye  and  ear  the  envious  seal, 
And  wild  ideas  throng  the  mind, 

That  palsied  speech  must  ne'er  reveal ; 

Where  Instinct,  like  a  robber  bold, 

Steals  sever'd  links  from  Reason's  chain, 

And  leaping  o'er  her  barrier  cold, 

Proc'aitns  the  proud  precaution  vain. 

Say,  who  shall  with  magician's  wand 

That  e'emental  mass  compose, 
Where  young  affections  slumber  fond 

Like  germs  unwak'd  'mid  wintry  snows  ? 


83  MBS.    6IG0URNEY  S    POEMS. 

Who,  in  that  undecyphcr'd  scroll, 
The  mystic  characters  may  see, 

Save  He  who  reads  the  secret  soul, 
And  holds  of  life  and  death  the  key? 

Then,  on  thy  midnight  journey  roam, 
Poor  wandering  child  of  rayless  gloom. 

And  to  thy  last  and  narrow  home, 
Drop  gently  from  this  living  tomb. 

Yes, — uninterpreted  and  drear, 
Toil  onward  with  benighted  mind, 

Still  kneel  at  prayers  thou  canst  not  hear, 
And  grope  for  truth  thou  may'st  not  find. 

No  scroll  of  friendship,  or  of  love, 
Must  breathe  soft  language  o'er  thy  heart* 

Nor  that  blest  Book  which  guides  above, 
Its  message  to  thy  soul  impart. 

But  Thou,  who  didst  on  Calvary  die, 
Flows  not  thy  mercy  wide  and  fceel 

Thou,  who  didst  rend  of  Death  the  lie 
Is  Nature's  seal  too  strong  for  thee  1 

And  Thou,  Oh  Spirit  pure  !  whose  rest 
Is  with  the  lowly  contrite  train, 

Illume  the  temple  of  her  breast, 
And  cleanse  of  latent  ill  the  stain, 

That  she,  whose  pilgrimage  below, 
Was  night  that  never  hoped  a  morn, 

That  undeclining  day  may  know 
Which  of  eternity  is  born. 


M3S.    SIGOCKNEY  S    POEMS. 

The  great  transition  who  can  tell ! 

When  from  the  ear  its  seal  shall  part, 
Where  countless  lyres  seraphic  swell, 

And  ho1}  transport  thrills  the  heart : 

When  the  chiin'd  tongue,  forbid  to  pour 

The  broken  melodies  of  time, 
Shall  io  the  highest  numbers  soar 

Of  everlasting  praise  sublime  : 

Wher  those  vcil'd  orbs,  which  ne'er  might  trace 
The  features  ot  their  kindred  clay, 

Shall  seem  of  Deity,  the  face, 

And  glow  with  rapoire's  deathless  ray. 


THE   COMMUNION. 

"Master!  it  is  good  to  be  here."'— Mark  ix.  5. 
They  knelt  them  side  by  sid3 ;  the  hoary  man 
Whose  memory  was  an  age,  and  c'ie  whose  cheek 
Gleam'd  like  that  velvet,  which  the  young  moss-rose 
Puts  blushing  forth,  from  its  scarce  sever'd  sheath. 
There  was  the  sage, — whose  eye  of  science  spans 
The  comet  in  his  path  of  fire, — and  s^e 
Whose  household  duty  was  her  sole  delight, 
And  highest  study.     On  the  chancel  clasp'd, 
In  meek  devotion,  were  those  bounteous  hands 
That  scatter  thousands  at  the  call  of  Christ, 
And  his,  whose  labor  wins  the  scanty  bread 
For  his  young  children.     There  the  man  of  might 
8* 


90  MRS«   SIGOURNEY's    POEM3. 

On  bended  knee,  fast  by  his  servant's  side, 
Sought  the  same  Master, — brethren  in  the  faith. 
And  fellow-pilgrims. 

See,  yon  wrinkled  brow 
Where  care  and  grief  for  many  a  year  have  trac'd 
Alternate  furrows, — near  that  ruby  lip, 
Which  but  the  honey  and  the  dew  of  love 
Have  nourish'd.     And  for  each,  eternal  health 
Descendeth  here. 

Look !   Look  !  as  yon  deep  veil 
Is  swept  aside,  what  an  o'erwhelming  page 
Disease  hath  written  with  its  pen  of  pain. 
Ah,  gentle  sister,  thou  art  hasting  where 
No  treacherous  hectic  plants  its  funeral  rose  : 
Drink  thou  the  wine-cup  of  thy  risen  Lord, 
And  it  shall  nerve  thee  for  thy  toilsome  path 
Through  the  dark  valley  of  the  shade  of  death. 
— 'Tis  o'er.     A  holy  silence  reigns  around. 
The  organ  slumbers.     The  sweet,  solemn  voice 
Of  him  who  dealt  the  soul  its  heavenly  food 
Turns  inward,  like  a  wearied  sentinel, 
Pillowing  on  thought  profound. 

Then  every  head 
Bows  down  in  parting  worship,  mute  and  deep, 
The  whisper  of  the  soul.     And  who  may  tell 
In  that  brief,  silent  space,  how  many  a  hope 
Is  born  that  hath  a  life  beyond  the  tomb. 
— So  hear  us,  Father  !  in  our  voiceless  prayer, 
That  at  thy  better  banquet,  all  may  meet, 
And  take  the  cup  of  bliss,  and  thirst  no  more. 


WB3.    SIGOURNEV's    POEMS.  91 


NAPOLEON'S   EPITAPH. 

"The  moon  of  St.  Helena  shone  out,  and  there  we  saw  the  fae* 

of  Napoleon's  sepulchre,  characterless,  uninscribed." 

And  who  shall  write  thine  epitaph  ?  thou  man 
Of  mystery  and  might. 

Shall  orphan  hands 
Inscribe  it  with  their  fathers'  broken  swords  ? 
Or  the  warm  trickling  of  the  widows'  tear, 
Channel  it  slowly  'mid  the  rugged  rock, 
As  the  keen  torture  of  the  v/ater-drop 
Doth  wear  the  sentene'd  brain  ! 

Shall  countless  ghosts 
Arise  from  Hades,  and  in  lurid  flame 
With  shadowy  finger  trace  thine  effigy, 
Who  sent  them  to  their  audit  unanneal'd, 
And  with  but  that  brief  space  for  shrift  or  prayer, 
Given  at  the  cannon's  mouth? 

Thou  who  didst  sit 
Like  eagle  on  the  apex  of  the  globe, 
And  hear  the  murmur  of  its  conquered  tribes, 
As  chirp  the  weak-voie'd  nations  of  the  grass, 
Why  art  thou  sepulchred  in  yon  far  Isle, 
Yo:i  little  speck,  which  scarce  the  maimer 
Descru  s  mid  ocean's  foam  ]     Thou  who  didst  hew 
A  pathway  for  thy  host  above  the  cloud, 
Guiding  their  footsteps  o'er  the  frost-work  crown 
Of  the  thron'd  Alps, — why  dost  thou  sleep  unmark'd, 
Even  by  such  slight  memento  as  the  hind 
Carves  on  his  own  coarse  tomb-stone'? 


92  Mfl3.  sigourney's  poems. 

Bid  the  throng 
Who  pour'd  thee  incense,  as  Olympian  Jove, 
And  breath'd  thy  thunders  on  the  battle  field, 
Return,  and  rear  thy  monument.     Those  forms 
O'er  the  wide  vallies  of  red  slaughter  spread, 
From  pole  to  tropic,  and  from  zone  to  zone, 
Hoed  not  thy  clarion  call.     But  should  they  rise, 
As  in  the  vision  that  the  prophet  saw, 
And  each  dry  bone  its  sever'd  fellow  find, 
Piling'  their  pillar'd  dust,  as  erst,  they  gave 
Their  souls  for  thee,  the  wondering  stars  might  deem 
A  second  time  the  puny  pride  of  man 
Did  creep  by  stealth  upon  its  Babel  stairs, 
To  dwell  with  them.     But  here  unwept  thou  art, 
Like  a  dead  lion  in  his  thicket-lair, 
With  neither  living  man,  nor  spirit  condemn'd, 
To  write  thine  epitaph. 

Invoke  the  climes, 
Who  serv'd  as  playthings  in  thy  desperate  game 
Of  mad  ambition,  or  their  treasures  strew'd 
Till  meagre  famine  on  their  vitals  prey'd, 
To  pay  thy  reckoning. 

France  !  who  gave  so  free 
Thy  life-stream  to  his  cup  of  wine,  and  saw 
That  purple  vintage  shed  o'er  half  the  earth, 
Write  the  first  line,  if  thou  hast  blood  to  spare. 
Thou  too,  whose  pride  did  deck  dead  Caesar's  tomb, 
And  chant  high  requiem  o'er  the  tyrant  band 
Who  had  their  birth  with  thee,  lend  us  thine  arts 
Of  sculpture  and  of  classic  eloquence 
To  grace  his  obsequies,  at  whose  dark  frown 
Thine  ancient  spirit  quail'd  ;  and  to  the  list 


MBS.   SIGOUENEY  S    POEMS. 

Of  mutilated  king's,  who  glean'd  their  meat 
'Neath  A  gag's  table,  add  the  name  of  Rome. 
— Turn  Austria  !  iron-brow'd  and  stern  of  heart, 
And  on  his  monument,  to  whom  thou  g-av'st 
In  anger,  battle,  and  in  craft  a  bride, 
Grave  Austerlitz,  and  fiercely  turn  away. 
— As  the  rein'd  war-horse  snuffs  the  trumpet-blast. 
Rouse  Prussia  from  her  trance  with  Jena's  name, 
And  bid  her  witness  to  that  fame  which  soars 
O'er  him  of  Macedon,  and  shames  the  vaunt 
Of  Scandinavia's  madman. 

From  the  shades 
Of  letter'd  ease,  Oh  Germany  !  come  forth 
With  pen  of  fire,  and  from  thy  troubled  scroll 
Such  as  thou  spread'st  at  Leipsic,  gather  tints 
Of  deenpr  ^kov2r*--.-  t.u.°n  hold  romance 
Hath  ever  imag'd  in  her  wildest  dream, 
Or  history  trusted  to  her  sybil-leaves. 
— Hail,  lotus  crown'd  !  in  thy  green  childhood  fed, 
By  stiff-neck'd  Pharaoh,  and  the  shepherd  kings, 
Hast  thou  no  tale  of  him  who  drench'd  thy  sands 
At  Jaffa  and  Aboukir?  when  the  flight 
Of  rushing  souls  went  up  so  strange  and  strong 
To  the  accusing  Spirit  1 

Glorious  Isle  ! 
Whose  thrice  enwreathed  chain,  Promethean  like 
Did  bind  him  to  the  fatal  rock,  we  ask 
Thy  deep  memer.to  for  this  marble  tomb. 
— Ho  !  fur-clad  Russia  !  with  thy  spear  of  frost, 
Or  with  thy  wiuter-moeking  Cossack's  lance, 
Stir  the  cold  memories  of  thy  vengeful  brain, 
And  give  the  ia?t  line  of  our  epitaph. 


MRS.    SIGOCBNEY  S    PCEMS. 

— But  there  was  silence  :  for  no  sceptred  hand 
Receiv'd  the  challenge. 

From  the  misty  deep 
Rise,  Island-spirits  !  like  those  sisters  three, 
Who  spin  and  cut  the  trembling  thread  of  life  ; 
Rise  on  your  coral  pedestals,  and  write 
That  eulogy  which  haughtier  climes  deny. 
Come,  for  ye  lull'd  him  in  your  matron  arms, 
And  cheer'd  his  exile  with  the  name  of  king, 
And  spread  that  curtain'd  couch  which  none  disturb 
Come,  twine  some  trait  of  household  tenderness 
Some  tender  leaflet,  nurs'd  with  Nature's  tears 
Around  this  urn.     But  Corsica,  who  rock'd 
His  cradle  at  Ajacio,  turn'd  away, 
And  tiny  Elba,  in  the  Tuscan  wave 
Threw  her  slight  annul  with  the  haste  of  fear. 
And  rude  Helena  sick  at  heart,  and  grey 
'Neath  the  Pacific's  smiting,  bade  the  moon 
With  silent  finger,  point  the  traveler's  gaze 
To  an  unhonor'd  tomb. 

Then  Earth  arose, 
That  blind,  old  Empress,  on  her  crumbling  throne, 
And  to  the  echoed  question,  "  who  shall  write 
Napoleon's  epitaph  ?  '  as  one  who  broods 
O'er  unforgiven  injur.es,  answer'd,  "none." 


MBS.   SIGOURNEY's    POEMS.  95 


THE   FRIENDS   OF  MAN. 

The  young  babe  sat  on  its  mother's  knee, 
Shaking-  its  coral  and  be. Is  with  glee, 
When  Hope  drew  near  with  a  seraph  smile 
To  kiss  the  lips  that  had  breatb'd  no  guile 
Nor  spoke  the  words  of  sorrow  : 
Its  little  sister  brought  a  flower, 
And  Hope  still  lingering  nigh 
With  sunny  tress  and  sparkling  eye 
Whisptr'd  of  one  in  a  brighter  bower 
It  might  pluck  for  itself  to-morrow. 

The  boy  came  in  from  the  wintry  snow, 

And  mused  by  the  parlor-fire, 
But  ere  thf  evening  lamps  did  glow, 
A  stranger  came,  and  bending  ]oat 
Kiss'd  his  fair  and  ruddy  brow  ; 
"•What  is  that  in  your  hand?"  she  said  : 
■  My  New- Year's  Gift,  with  its  covers  red." 
"  Bring  hither  the  book,  my  bov   and  see, 
The  magic  spell  of  Men  ory, 
That  page  hath  gold,  and  a  way  I'll  find 
To  lock  it  safe  in  your  docile  mind  ; 
For  books  have  honey,  the  sages  say, 
That  is  sweet  to  the  taste,  when  the  hair  is  grey.' 

The  youth,  at  midnight  sought  his  bed, 

But  ere  he  clos'd  his  eyes, 
Two  forms  drew  near  with  gentle  tread, 

In  meek  and  saintly  guise, 


96  MRS-  sigouhney's  poems. 

Onf>  struck  a  lyre  of  wondrous  power, 
With  thrilling  music  fraught, 
That  chain'd  the  flying  summer  hour, 
And  charm'd  the  listener's  thought ; 
For  still  would  its  tender  cadence  be 

"  Follow  me  !     Follow  me  ! 
And  every  morn  a  smile  shall  bring, 
As  sweet  as  the  merry  lay  I  sing." 

She  ceas'd,  and  with  a  serious  air 
The  other  made  reply, 
"  Shall  he  not  also  be  my  care  1 
May  not  I  his  pleasures  share  1 

Sister  !  Sister  !  tell  me  why  1 
Need  Memory  e'er  with  hope  contend  ? 
Doth  not  the  virtuous  soul,  still  find  in  both  a  friend  V 

The  youth  beheld  the  strife, 
And  eagerly  replied, 
"Come,  both,  an^  ~^  my  guide, 
And  gild  the  path  of  life;" 
So  he  gave  to  each  a  trusting  kiss, 
And  laid  him  down,  and  his  dream  was  bliss. 

The  man  came  forth  to  run  his  race, 
And  ever  when  tho  morning  light 

Rous'd  him  from  the  trance  of  night, 
When  singing  from  her  nest, 

The  lark  went  up    v  ith  dewy  breast, 
Hope  by  his  pillow  a  .vith  angel  grace, 

And  as  a  mother  cheers  her  son, 

She  girded  his  daily  harness  on. 


MRS.    BIGOURNEY's   POEMS.  97 

And  when  the  star  of  eve,  from  weary  care, 

Bade  him  to  his  home  repair, 
And  by  the  hearth-stone  where  his  joys  were  born, 
The  cricket  wound  its  tiny  horn, 
Sober  memory  spread  her  board 
With  knowledge  richly  stor'd, 
And  supp'd  with  him,  and  like  a  guardian  bless'd 
His  nightly  rest. 

The  old  man  sat  in  his  elbow-chair, 
His  locks  were  thin  and  grey, 
Memory,  that  faithful  friend  was  there, 
And  he  in  querulous  tone  did  say, 

"  Hast  thou  not  lost,  with  careless  key, 
Something  that  I  have  entrusted  to  thee  1" 

Her  pausing  answer  was  sad  and  low, 

"It  may  be  so  !  It  may  be  so  ! 
The  lock  of  my  casket  is  worn  and  weak, 
And  Time  with  a  plunderer's  eye  doth  seek ; 

Something  I  miss,  but  I  cannot  say 

What  it  is,  he  hath  stolen  away, 

For  only  tinsel  and  trifles  spread 

Over  the  alter'd  path  we  tread ; 
But  the  gems  thou  didst  give  me  when  life  was  new, 

Here  they  are,  all  told  and  true, 
Diamonds  and  rubies  of  changeless  hue." 

But  while  in  grave  debate, 
Mournful,  and  ill  at  ease  they  sate, 
Finding  treasures  disarrang'd, 
Blaming  the  fickle  world,  tho'  they  themselves  were  chang'd, 
9 


98  MRS«  sigourney's  poems. 

Hope  on  a  buoyant  wing  did  soar, 
Which  folded  underneath  her  robe  she  wore, 
And  spread  its  rainbow  plumes  with  new  delight, 
And  jeoparded  its  strength  in  a  bold,  heavenward  flight. 

The  dying  lay  on  his  couch  of  pain, 

And  his  soul  went  forth  to  the  angel-train, 

Yet  when  Heaven's  gate  its  golden  bars  undrew, 
Memory  walked  that  portal  through, 
And  spread  her  tablet  to  the  Judge's  eye, 

Heightening  with  clear  response  the  welcome  of  the  sky 

But  at  that  threshhold  high 
Hope  falter'd  with  a  drooping  eye, 
And  as  the  expiring  Rose, 
Doth  in  its  last  adieu  its  sweetest  breath  disclose, 
Lay  down  to  die. 

As  a  spent  harp  its  symphony  doth  roll, 
Faintly  her  parting  sigh 
Breath'd  to  the  glorious  form  that  stood  serenely  by 

"  Earth's  pilgrim  I  resign, 
I  cheer'd  him  to  his  grave,  I  lov'd  him,  he  was  mine, 
Christ  hath  redeem'd  his  soul, 
Immortal  joy  !  'tis  thine." 


MRS.    SIGOURNEy's   POEMS.  99 

THE  FLOWERS  OF  SPRING. 

To  a  Sick  Friend. 

Friend  !  around  whose  couch  of  pain, 
Fond  Hope  lingereth  not  in  vain, 
Thou,  whom  strong  and  saintly  prayer 
Still  imploreth  Heaven  to  spare, 
Thou  hast  watch'd  our  wild  retreats, 
Thou  hast  priz'd  our  simple  sweets, 
Long  our  voiceless  lore  hast  known, 
Listen  to  our  whisper'd  tone, 

Come  back  to  us  ! 

Love,  with  warmth  that  ever  glows, 
Speaketh  through  our  lips  of  rose, 
Friendship,  to  our  dewy  sighs 
Trusts  her  hoarded  memories, 
Gratitude,  with  Penury  pale, 
Hasting  to  our  native  vale, 
Bade  us  fervent,  for  their  sake, 
Plead,  and  no  denial  take, 

Come  back  to  us. 

Tardy  Spring  hath  held  us  long, 
From  thy  bowers  of  light  and  song, 
Now  on  vine,  and  shrub,  and  tree, 
See  !  we  bloom  to  welcome  thee, 
For  thy  tasteful  eye  we  pine, 
Wilt  thou  teach  us  where  to  twine  1 
Nesting  birds  with  tenderest  lay, 
Swell  their  chorus,  as  we  say 

Come  back  to  us. 


100  MRS.  sigoubney's  poems. 

Take  our  message  to  thy  breast, 
Let  us  on  thy  pillow  rest, 
From  blest  clime,  and  seraph  song, 
We  will  not  detain  thee  long, 
For  Earth's  most  protracted  day 
Like  our  blossom  fleets  away, 
Friend  to  us,  and  Nature's  smile, 
Only  for  a  little  while 

Come  back  to  us. 


DEATH  OF  MRS.  HARRIET  W.  L.  WINSLOVV, 
MISSIONARY  TO  CEYLON. 

Thy  name  hath  power  like  magic.     Back  it  brings 
The  earliest  pictures  hung  in  Memory's  halls, 
Tinting  them  freshly  o'er  : — the  rugged  cliff, 
The  towering  trees,  the  wintry  walk  to  school, 
The  page  so  often  conn'd,  the  needle's  task 
Achiev'd  with  weariness,  the  hour  of  sport 
Well  earn'd  and  dearly  priz'd,  the  sparkling  brook 
Making  its  slight  cascade,  the  darker  rush 
Of  the  pent  river  through  its  rocky  pass, 
Our  violet-gatherings  'mid  the  vernal  banks, 
When  our  young  hearts  did  ope  their  chrystal  gates 
To  every  simple  joy. 

I  little  deem'd 
'Mid  all  that  gay  and  gentle  fellowship 
That  Asia's  sun  would  beam  upon  thy  grave, 
Tho'  even  then,  from  thy  dark,  serious  eye 


MRS.   SIGOUnNEY's    POEMS.  101 

There  was  a  glancing  forth  of  glorious  thought, 

That  scorn'd  earth's  vanities.     I  saw  thee  stand 

With  but  a  few  brief  summers  o'er  thy  head, 

And  in  the  consecrated  courts  of  God 

Confess  thy  Saviour's  name.     And  they  who  mark'd 

The  deep  devotion  and  the  high  resolve 

Of  that  young  half-blown  bud,  did  wondering  ask 

What  its  full-bloom  must  be.     But  now  thy  couch 

Is  with  thine  infant  train,  where  the  sad  voice 

Of  the  poor  Ceylon  mother  tells  her  child 

Of  all  thy  prayers  and  labors.     Yes,  thy  rest 

Is  in  the  bosom  of  that  fragrant  isle 

Where  heathen  man  with  lavish  nature  strives 

To  blot  the  lesson  she  would  teach  of  God. 

Thy  pensive  sisters  pause  upon  thy  tomb 

To  catch  the  spirit  that  did  bear  thee  through 

All  tribulation,  till  thy  robes  were  white, 

To  join  the  angelic  train.     And  so  farewell, 

My  childhood's  playmate,  and  my  sainted  friend, 

Whose  bright  example,  not  without  rebuke 

Admonisheth,  that  home  and  ease  and  wealth 

And  native  land,  are  well  exchang'd  for  Heaven. 


9* 


102  MBS.    SIGOUBNEY's   POEMS. 

ESTABLISHMENT  OF  A  FEMALE  COLLEGE  IN 
NEW-GRENADA,  SOUTH  AMERICA. 

Ye  have  done  well,  my  brethren.     Thus  to  cast 

The  balm  of  healing  at  the  fountain's  head 

Was  wisely  done.     For  on  the  thousand  streams 

That  murmur  freshly  round  your  hallowed  homes 

Its  blessedness  shall  flow.     Well  have  ye  scanned 

With  philosophic  eye,  their  latent  worth, 

Who  in  the  weakness  of  a  tender  frame, 

And  shrinking  consciousness  of  ill,  might  seem 

Of  little  import.     Yet  those  fragile  forms, 

Now  trembling  in  their  beauty  and  their  fear, 

Shall  kindle  with  new  energies  :  high  hope 

And  martyr-like  endurance,  and  deep  strength 

To  toil  untired,  to  suffer  and  be  still, 

And  all  those  deathless  sympathies  that  spring 

Up  from  a  mother's  love.     These  shall  be  theirs  ; 

And  what  you  trust  to  them  of  mental  wealth, 

Knowledge,  or  virtue,  or  the  truth  of  God, 

Shall  blossom  round  the  cradle  of  your  sons, 

And  bear  rich  harvest  in  your  country's  fame. 

Realms  there  have  been,  which,  like  your  own  did  rend 

A  despot's  shackles  from  their  giant-breast, 

And  rush  to  freedom.     But  the  baneful  breath 

Of  ignorance,  or  luxury,  or  sin, 

Swept  o'er  them  as  a  siroch,  and  they  sank 

Amid  the  waste  of  ages.     They,  perchance, 

Did  look  on  woman  as  a  worthless  thing, 

A  cloistered  gem,  a  briefly-fading  flower, 

Remembering  not  that  she  had  kingly  power 


MBS.    SXGOUHNEY'S   POEMS.  103 

O'er  the  young-  soul.     They  deem'd  not  that  those  lines, 

Grav'd  so  indelibly,  that  all  the  storms 

And  water-floods  of  Time  erase  them  not, 

Which  even  stern  Death  peruses  when  he  seals 

The  scroll  of  life  up  for  the  judgment-bar, 

Were  from  a  mother's  pencil. 

Ye  have  judged, 
That  'mid  a  nation's  elements,  her  hand 
Might  cast  a  healthful  leaven,  and  her  lip, 
Even  from  the  mouldering  pillow  of  the  grave, 
Reach  with  its  dove-like,  heaven-taught  eloquence, 
A  race  unborn.     According  to  your  faith 
Be  your  reward.     And  may  the  glorious  voice 
Of  liberty,  from  Andes'  cloud- wreath'd  crown, 
Through  every  region  whence  your  rivers  hoard 
Their  ocean  tribute,  go  with  god-like  strength, 
Wakening  new  nations  to  Jehovah's  praise. 


LADY  ROSSE. 

Benefactions  were  sent  from  England,  by  this  benevolent  lady,  to 
aid  in  the  erection  of  Chapels  in  the  destitute  villages  of  Ohio. 

Lady,  thy  name  is  with  the  green-rob'd  West, 
Where  bold  Ohio  drinks  his  tribute-streams, 

Where  unshorn  forests  rear  the  cloud-wTrapt  crest, 
And  the  New  World  like  her  of  Eden  seems 

To  muse  of  Heaven,  with  sweet  majestic  air ; 
Lady  !  thy  name  is  there. 


104  MHS-  sigouhney's  poems. 

A  sacred  echo  stirs  yon  rose-deck'd  wild, 
The  hoary-headed  laborer  bows  his  knee, 

While  from  glad  mother,  and  from  lisping  child 
Flows  forth  the  holy  song  in  accents  free, 

The  high  orison  crowns  the  accordant  lay, 
Lady  !  for  thee  they  pray. 

To  be  remember'd  by  the  sacred  spire, 
Pointing  the  weary  to  a  home  of  rest, 

By  the  deep  organ,  and  the  hymning  choir, 

Cherish'd,  when  Earth  lies  heavy  on  the  breast, 

Is  better  than  with  haughty  state  to  bide, 

In  marble's  sculptur'd  pride. 

Lady, — thy  gifts  were  to  the  famish'd  soul, 
For  whose  eternal  weal  the  Saviour  died  ; 

And  when  the  wave  of  boundless  bliss  shall  roil 
O'er  the  meek  bosoms  of  the  purified, 

When  from  earth's  dust,  the  spirit's  wing  is  free, 
He  shall  remember  thee. 


Mas.  sigocbney's  poems.  105 


THE   PHOLAS. 


It  is  a  fact  familiar  to  Conchologists,  that  the  genus  Pholas,  pos- 
sesses the  property  of  phosphorescence.  It  has  been  asserted,  that 
this  may  be  restored,  even  when  the  animal  is  in  a  dried  state,  by  the 
application  of  water;  but  is  extinguished  with  the  least  quantity  of 
brandy. 

Frail  thing  !  on  ocean's  pity  thrown, 

Protected  by  no  parentis  care, 
Slow  softener  of  the  rugged  stone, 

To  scoop  a  hermit-mansion  there,* 
Say, — wert  thou  born  'mid  coral  caves 

Where  pearly  gems  their  lustre  shed  ? 
Or  where  the  pensile  sea-weed  waves 

Like  cypress  o'er  the  unburied  dead  1 

Or  didst  thou  fold  thine  armour  white 

In  terror  at  the  tempest's  roar  T 
Or  calmly  shed  a  brilliant  light 

'Neath  some  o'ershadowing  madrepore  ? 
Ah  !  would  that  man  were  prompt  to  learn 

The  lesson  thou  art  prone  to  teach, 
Wise,  from  thy  dark  testaceous  urn, 

And  eloquent,  tho'  void  of  speech. 

Thou  warn'st  him  that  the  ethereal  mind, 

That  spark  of  Heaven's  enkindled  ray, 
By  genial  Temperance  refin'd, 

Still  brightens  toward  the  perfect  day  ; 


*  The  Pholos  has  the  power  of  perforating  wood  and  stone,  and 
thus  securing  itself  a  safe  and  secret  abode.  Hence  the  propriety  of 
its  name,  derived  from  the  Greek  $u\svw  signifying  to  hide  or  remain 
concealed. 


106  MRS.   SIGOURNEV'S  POEMS. 

But  if,  debas'd  by  gross  desire, 
It  plunges  in  the  poisonous  bowl, 

That  flame  must  sicken  and  expire, 
And  leave  the  clay  without  a  soul. 

Slow  months  of  toil  in  caverns  cold, 

Thy  labyrinthine  home  prepare, 
But  man,  to  whirlwind  passion  sold, 

Makes  homeless  those  who  trust  his  care, 
From  crime  to  crime,  in  downward  stage, 

By  foul  Intemperance  darkly  driven, 
He  forfeits  with  demoniac  rage, 

The  peace  of  Earth  and  hope  of  Heaven. 


DEATH   OF  A  YOUNG   WIFE. 

Why  is  the  green  earth  broken  ]     Yon  tall  grass 
Which  in  its  ripeness  woo'd  the  mower's  hand, 
And  the  wild  rose,  whose  young  buds  faintly  bloom'd, 
Why  are  their  roots  uptorn  3     Why  swells  a  mound 
Of  new-made  turf  among  them  1 

Ask  of  him 
Who  in  his  lonely  chamber  weeps  so  long 
At  morning's  dawn  and  evening's  pensive  hour, 
Whose  bosom's  planted  hopes  might  scarcely  boast 
More  firmness,  than  yon  riven  flower  cf  grass. 
Yet  hath  not  Memory  stores  whereon  to  feed, 
When  Joy's  young  harvest  fails  as  clings  the  bee 
To  the  sweet  calyx  of  some  smitten  flower  1 
— Still  is  remembrance, — grief.     The  tender  smile 
Of  young,  confiding  Love,  its  winning  tones, 


MRS.    SIGOUHNEY's    POEMS.  107 

Its  self-devotion,  its  delight  to  seek 
Another's  good,  its  ministry  to  soothe 
The  hour  of  pain,  come  o'er  the  hermit  heart 
To  claim  its  bitterest  tear. 

But  that  meek  Faith, 
Which  all  distrustful  of  its  holiest  deeds 
So  strongly  clasp'd  a  Saviour's  feet,  when  Death 
Rang  the  crush'd  heart-strings  like  a  broken  harp, 
That  Hope  which  shed  its  seraph-benison 
On  all  who  wept  around,  that  smile  which  left 
Heaven's  stainless  semblance  on  the  breathless  clay, 
These  are  the  tokens  to  the  soul  bereav'd, 
To  gird  itself  invincibly,  and  seek 
A  deathless  union  with  the  parted  bride. 


CHRISTIAN  HOPE. 

"If  ye  then  be  risen  with  Christ,  seek  those  things  that  are  from 
ibove,  where  Christ  sitteth  at  the  right  hand  of  God.  Set  your  affec- 
ions  on  things  above ;  for  ye  are  dead,  and  your  life  is  hid  with  Christ 
n  God."-  St.  Paul. 

If  with  the  Lord  your  hope  doth  rest, 

With  Christ  who  reigns  above, 
Loose  from  its  bonds  your  captive  breast, 

And  heavenward  point  its  love. 

Yes,  heavenward.     Ye're  of  holy  birth 

Bid  your  affections  soar 
Above  the  vain  delights  of  Earth 

Which  fading,  bloom  no  more. 


lOg  MR3«  sigourney's  poems. 

Seek  ye  some  pure  and  thornless  rose  ! 

Some  friend  with  changeless  eye  1 
Some  fount  whence  living  water  flows  1 

Go,  seek  those  things  on  high. 

Thither  bid  Hope  a  pilgrim  go, 
And  Faith  her  mansion  rear, 

Even  while  amid  this  world  of  woe 
Ye  shed  the  stranger's  tear. 

If  Folly  tempts  or  Sin  allures, 

Be  dead  to  ail  their  art, 
So  shall  eternal  life  be  yours 

When  time's  brief  years  depart. 


QUEEN    ELIZABETH    AND    THE    COUNTESS    OF 
NOTTINGHAM. 

Death  stood  beneath  a  lordly  dome 

As  pitiless  and  dread, 
As  when  within  some  cottage-home 

He  smites  the  peasant's  head  : 
"  Haste  !     Call  the  Queen  /"  a  hollow  tone 

Of  fainting  anguish  cried, 
And  she  who  sat  on  England's  throne 

Came  to  the  sufferer's  side. 

The  dying  Countess  strove  in  vain 

Her  last  request  to  speak, 
Till  tears  of  woe  with  dews  of  pain 

Blent  on  her  ashen  cheek  : 


MRS.    SIGOURNEy's   POEMS.  109 

At  length  her  quivering  hand  unclos'd, 

And  lo  !  a  ring  was  there, 
Of  rare  and  radiant  gems  compos'd, 

Such  as  a  king  might  wear. 

1  He,  for  whose  hand  this  ring  was  meet, 

i"  dare  not  name  his  name 
Once  bade  me  lay  it  at  your  feet 

To  spare  the  scaffold's  shame  ; 
But  I — and  he  my  sin  reveal'd, 

And  my  repentance  keen, 
In  bitter  hate  the  pledge  conceal'd, 

Oh  pardon  !  gracious  Queen  !" 

What  might  that  jewePd  toy  restore 

Within  the  royal  heart  1 
Did  buried  love  revive  once  more 

In  that  convulsive  start  1 
But  none  may  scan  her  spirit's  frame 

As  that  fond  gift  she  view'd, 
While  back  her  idol  Essex  came 

From  his  dark  grave  of  blood  ! 

Again  that  noble  form  appear'd 

In  homage  at  her  feet, 
Again  his  manly  voice  she  heard 

In  murmur'd  flattery  sweet  ; 
His  warm  lips  press  the  fatal  ring, 

Bright  tears  suffuse  his  eye, 
Broke  she  the  promise  of  a  king  ? 

And  did  that  favorite  die  ? 

Down,  Fancy,  down  !  her  cheek  is  pale  ! 
Her  haughty  soul  doth  quake, 
10 


110  Mas-   filGOURNEY's  POEM8." 

The  horrors  of  thy  scenery  veil, 

The  fearful  torpor  break, 
That  seems  along-  her  brow  to  steal, 

But  lo  !  with  sudden  strife, 
In  all  its  rash,  ungovern'd  zeal 

Dire  Anger  sprang  to  life. 

Revenge,  amazement  and  remorse 

Each  warring  thought  distrest, 
And  every  heart-string's  rebel  force 

Made  conflict  in  her  breast ; 
Fierce  passions  o'er  her  features  spread 

As  with  a  frantic  grasp 
She  shook  the  dying  in  Iter  bed 

Even  at  the  latest  gasp. 

With  flashing  eyes  and  tottering  knees 

She  shriek'd  in  accents  shrill 
"  God  may  forgive  you,  if  he  please 

But  no  !  I  never  will.1' 
Convulsion  like  a  blighting  frost 

Upon  the  sufferer  fell, 
And  with  one  groan  the  wretched  ghost 

Bade  its  blanch' d  corpse  farewell. 

Yet  scarce  a  few  more  suns  serene 
O'er  the  proud  palace  sped, 

When  lo  !  high  Tudor's  haughty  Queen 
Was  with  the  crovvnless  dead  ; 

Yes  !  the  implacable  did  stand 
Before  that  Judge  in  Heaven 

Who  gave  the  great,  the  dread  command 
"  Forgive  !  and  be  forgiven." 


MRS.   SIGOURNEY'S   POEMS.  Ill 


THE  LOST  SISTER. 


They  wak'd  me  from  my  sleep,  I  knew  not  why, 
And  bade  me  haste  where  a  pale  midnight  lamp 
Gleam'd  from  an  inner  chamber.     There  she  lay, 
With  livid  brow  who  yestermom  breath'd  forth 
Through  joyous  smiles  her  superflux  of  bliss 
Into  the  hearts  of  others.     By  her  side 
Her  hoary  sire,  with  speechless  horror  gaz'd 
Upon  the  stricken  idol,  all  dismay'd 
Beneath  his  God's  rebuke.     And  she  who  nurs'd 
That  fair  young  creature  at  her  gentle  breast, 
And  oft  those  sunny  locks  had  deck'd  with  buds 
Of  rose  and  jasmine,  shuddering  wip'd  the  dews 
Which  death  distils. 

The  sufferer  just  had  given 
Her  long  farewell,  and  for  the  last,  last  time 
Press'd  with  cold  lips  his  cheek  who  led  so  late 
Her  footsteps  to  the  altar,  and  receiv'd 
In  the  deep  transport  of  an  ardent  heart 
Her  vow  of  love.     And  she  had  softly  press'd 
That  golden  circlet  with  her  bloodless  hand 
Upon  his  finger,  which  he  kneeling  gave 
On  the  bright,  bridal  morn.     So,  there  she  lay 
In  calm  endurance,  like  the  smitten  lamb 
Wounded  in  flowery  pastures,  from  whose  breast 
The  dreaded  bitterness  of  death  had  past. 
— But  a  faint  wail  disturb'd  the  silent  scene, 
And  in  its  nurse's  arms,  a  new-born  babe 
Was  borne  in  utter  helplessness  along, 
Before  that  dying  eye. 


112  MRS.  sigoueney's  poems. 

Its  gather' d  film 
Kindled  one  moment,  with  a  sudden  glow 
Of  tearless  agony, — and  fearful  pangs 
Racking  the  rigid  features,  told  how  strong 
A  mother's  love  doth  root  itself.     One  cry 
Of  bitter  anguish,  blent  with  fervent  prayer 
Went  up  to  Heaven, — and  as  its  cadence  sank. 
Her  spirit  enter'd  there. 

Morn  after  morn 
Rose  and  retir'd, — Yet  still  as  in  a  dream 
I  seem'd  to  move.     The  certainty  of  loss 
Fell  not  at  once  upon  me.     Then  I  wept 
As  weep  the  sisterless.     For  thou  wert  fled 
My  only,  my  belov'd, —  my  sainted  one, 
Twin  of  my  spirit  !  and  my  number'd  days 
Must  wear  the  sable  of  that  midnight  hour 
Which  rent  thee  from  me. 


DEATH   OF  A  WIFE    DURING   THE   ABSENCE    OF 
HER  HUSBAND. 

The  Man  of  God,  from  distant  toil 

To  his  sweet  home  drew  nigh, 
And  kindling  expectation  rose 

With  brightness  to  his  eye, — 
But  She,  the  sharer  of  his  joy, 

The  solace  of  his  care, — 
Whose  smile  of  welcome,  woke  his  soul 

To  rapture,  was  not  there. 


MBS.   SIGOUBNEY's    POEMS.  113 

He  entered  and  his  darling  boys 

Came  gathering  to  his  side, — 
Tears  glitter'd  on  their  cheeks  of  rose, — 

Why  were  those  tears  undry'd  1 
And  one  a  stranger  to  its  sire, — 

A  new  born  babe  was  there, — 
Its  feeble  wailing  pierced  his  ear,^- 

Where  was  its  mother  ? — where  ? 

They  told  him, — and  he  hasted  down 

To  that  oblivious  cell, — 
From  whence  no  tenant  e'er  return'd 

Among  mankind  to  dwell, — 
And  there,  the  glory  of  his  house, 

A  lifeless  ruin  lay, — 
And  bowing  down  in  bitter  woe 

He  kiss'd  the  unanswering  clay. 

But  had  not  Faith  and  Hope  been  there, 

Whose  strong,  inspiring  breath 
Had  borne  that  parted  friend  above 

The  agony  of  death  ; — 
Had  they  not  stood  divinely  near 

To  yield  a  sure  relief, — 
What  else  could  hold  the  soul  unwreck'tl 

Amid  that  tide  of  grief? 


10* 


114 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY  3    POEMS- 


THE   SEA  BOY. 

11  Up  the  main  top-mast, — ho  !" 

The  storm  was  loud; 
And  the  deep  midnight  muffled  up  her  head, 
Leaving  no  ray.     By  the  red  binnacle 
I  saw  the  sea-boy.     His  young  cheek  was  pale, 
And  his  lip  trembled.     But  he  dared  not  hear 
That  hoarse  command  repeated.     So  he  sprang, 
With  slender  foot,  amid  the  slippery  shrouds. 

He,  oft,  by  moonlight-watch,  had  lured  my  ear 
With  everlasting  stories  of  his  home 
And  of  his  mother.     His  fair  brow  told  tales 
Of  household  kisses,  and  of  gentle  hands 
That  bound  it  when  it  ached,  and  laid  it  down 
On  the  soft  pillow,  with  a  curtaining  care. 
And  he  had  sometimes  spoken  of  the  cheer 
That  waited  him,  when  wearied  from  his  school, 
At  winter's  eve,  he  came.     Then  he  would  pause 
For  his  high-beating  bosom  threw  a  chain 
O'er  his  proud  lip,  or  else  it  would  have  sighed 
A  deep  remorse  for  leaving  such  a  home. 
And  he  would  haste  away,  and  pace  the  deck 
More  rapidly,  as  if  to  hide  from  me 
The  gushing  tear.     I  marked  the  inward  strife 
Unquestioning,  save  by  a  silent  prayer, 
That  the  tear  wrung  so  bitterly,  might  work 
The  sea-boy's  good  and  wash  away  all  trace 
Of  disobedience.     Now,  the  same  big  tear 
Hung  like  a  pearl  upon  him,  as  he  climbed 
And  grappled  to  the  mast.     I  watched  his  toil, 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY'S    POEMS.  115 

With  strange  foreboding,  till  he  seemed  a  speck 
Upon  the  ebon  bosom  of  the  cloud. 
And  I  remembered  that  he  once  had  said, 
"  I  fear  I  shall  not  see  my  home  again  :" 
And  sad  the  memory  of  those  mournful  words, 
Dwelt  with  me,  as  he  passed  above  my  sight 
Into  thick  darkness. 

The  wild  blast  swept  on, 
The  strong  ship  tossed. 

Shuddering,  I  heard  a  plunge 
A  heavy  plunge — a  gurgling  'mid  the  wave. 
I  shouted  to  the  crew.     In  vain  !  In  vain  ! 
The  ship  held  on  her  way.     And  never  more 
Shall  that  poor,  delicate  sea-boy  raise  his  head 
To  do  the  bidding  of  those  roughened  men, 
Whose  home  is  on  the  sea.     And  never  more 
May  his  fond  mother  strain  him  to  her  breast, 
Weeping  that  hardship  thus  should  bronze  the  brow 
To  her  so  beautiful — nor  the  kind  sire 
Make  glad,  by  his  forgiveness,  the  rash  youth 
Who  wandered  from  his  home,  to  throw  the  wealth 
Of  his  warm  feelings  on  the  faithless  sea. 


116  MBS.    SIGOUBUEy's    POEMS. 


CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 

Thou,  who  once  an  infant  stranger 
Honor'd  this  auspicious  morn, 

Thou,  who  in  Judea's  manger, 
Wert  this  day  of  woman  born  ; 

Thou,  whom  wondering  sages  offer'd 
Costly  gifts,  and  incense  sweet, 

Take  our  homage,  humbly  proffer'd, 
Grateful  kneeling  at  thy  feet : 

Thou  whose  path,  a  star  of  glory 

Gladly  hasted  to  reveal, 
Herald  of  salvation's  story, 

Touch  our  hearts  with  equal  zeal : 

Thou,  at  whose  approach  was  given 
Welcome  from  the  angels'  lyre, 

Teach  our  souls  that  song  of  Heaven, 
Ere  we  join  their  tuneful  choir, 


MRS.  SIGOUBNEy's   POEMS.  117 


"  Go  thy  way  for  this  time,  when  I  have  a  convenient  season,  I  will 
call  for  thee." — Acts. 

Alone  he  sat,  and  wept. — That  very  night 

The  ambassador  of  God,  with  earnest  zeal 

Of  eloquence  had  warn'd  him  to  repent, — 

And  like  the  Roman  at  Drusilla's  side 

Hearing  the  truth,  he  trembled. — Conscience  wrought, 

And  sin  allur'd.     The  struggle  shook  him  sore. 

The  dim  lamp  wan'd,  the  hour  of  midnight  toll'd  ; 

Prayer  sought  for  entrance, — but  the  heart  had  clos'd 

Its  diamond  valve.     He  threw  him  on  his  couch, 

And  bade  the  spirit  of  his  God  depart. 

— But  there  was  war  within  him,  and  he  sigh'd 

"  Depart  not  utterly,  thou  Blessed  One  ! 

Return  when  youth  is  past,  and  make  my  soul 

Forever  thine."     With  kindling  brow  he  trod 

The  haunts  of  pleasure,  while  the  viol's  voice 

And  beauty's  smile  his  fluttering  pulses  woke. 

To  Love  he  knelt,  and  on  his  brow  she  hung 

Her  freshest  myrtle-wreath.     For  gold  he  sought, 

And  winged  Wealth  indulg'd  him, — till  the  world 

Pronounc'd  him  happy.     Manhood's  vigorous  prime 

Swell'd  to  its  climax,  and  his  busy  days 

And  restless  nights  swept  like  a  tide  away. 

When  lo  ! — a  message  from  the  Crucified, 

11  Look  unto  me,  and  live."     But  Care  had  struck 

Deep  root  around  him, — and  its  countless  shoots 

Still  striking  earthward  like  the  Indian  tree 

Barr'd  out,  with  woven  shade?,  the  eye  of  Heaven. 

— Twice  warn'd,  he  ponder'd  : — then  impatient  spake 


118  MRS.   SIGOUHNEY'S   POEMS. 

Of  weariness,  and  haste,  and  want  of  time, 

And  duty  to  his  children,  and  besought 

A  longer  space  to  do  the  work  of  Heaven. 

— God  spake  again,  when  Age  had  shed  its  snows 

Upon  his  temples,  and  his  weary  hand 

Shrank  from  gold-gathering.     But  the  rigid  chain 

Of  Habit  bound  him,  and  he  still  implor'd 

A  more  convenient  season. 

"  See, — my  step 
Is  firm  and  free,  my  unquench'd  eye  delights 
To  view  this  pleasant  world, — and  life  with  me 
May  last  for  many  years.     In  the  calm  hour 
Of  lingering  sickness,  I  can  better  fit 
For  long  Eternity." 

— Disease  came  on, 
And  Reason  fled.     The  maniac  strove  with  Death, 
And  grappled  like  a  fiend,  with  shrieks  and  cries, 
Till  darkness  smote  his  eye-balls  and  thick  ice 
Settled  around  his  heart-strings.     The  poor  clay 
Lay  vanquish'd  and  distorted.     But  the  soul, 
The  soul  whose  promts' 'd  season  never  came 
To  hearken  to  its  Maker's  will,  had  gone 
To  weigh  His  sufferance  with  it3  own  abuse 
And  bide  the  audit . 


MRS.    SIGOUBNKY's    POEMS.  \\Q 


A  DREAM. 


Loud  howl'd  the  storm  of  Winter's  ire 
As  pensive  by  my  evening  fire, 
Thought,  long  involv'd  in  reverie  deep, 
Sank  wearied  in  the  arms  of  sleep. 
— Methought  a  rushing  wing  swept  by, 
And  hoary  Time  himself  stood  nigh 
Who  scythe  and  hour-glass  casting  down, 
And  smiling  thro'  a  wrinkleu  frown 
A  tube  display'd,  whose  power  sublime 

Could  bring  before  the  eye 
Past  ages,  and  remotest  climes 

With  graphic  imagery. 
Some  distant  land  I  sought  to  see 

When  the  last  century  shone, 
Ere  the  blest  Gospel's  ministry 

On  mission-wings  had  flown  : 
And  through  that  tube  my  glance  he  led 
Where  northern  seas  their  limits  spread, 
Where  the  rough  ice-berg  shocks  the  pole, 
And  wintry  midnight  chains  the  soul. 
There  in  a  subterranean  cell 

Her  watch  a  Greenland  mother  kept, 
And  while  the  lamp's  faint  radiance  fell 

Over  her  dying  infant  wept. 
But  when  beneath  the  snowy  mound 
Its  narrow,  noteless  grave  was  found, 
Vild  were  her  shrieks  of  woe  severe, 
So  voice  from  Heaven,  her  pangs  to  cheer. 


120  MRS-  sigourney's  poems. 

— Where  the  red  tropic  fiercely  burn'd 
To  dark-brow'd  Afric  next  we  turn'd, 
But  she,  to  nameless  miseries  left, 
Despis'd, — degraded,  crush'd,  bereft, 
Beheld  the  slave-ship's  tireless  sail, 
And  heard  her  fetterM  offspring  wail, 
With  gaze  forever  on  the  main, 
Watch'd  for  their  hop'd  return,  in  vain  ; 
Night  told  to  night  her  sleepless  care, 
And  ages  mock'd  her  fix'd  despair, 
While  her  loud  anguish  woke  the  wave, 
Invoking  gods  that  could  not  save. 
— Where  Ganges  rolls  his  worshiped  tide, 
Or  glittering  Hoogly's  waters  glide, 
With  lip  comprest,  and  stifled  groan 
The  Fakir  hardens  into  stone, 

While  throngs  exulting  cry, 
And  pilgrims'  bones  are  heedless  strown 

Beneath  a  torrid  sky. 
What  means  yon  reeking,  reddening  pile  ! 
And  whence  that  widow's  madden'd  smile  1 
As  towards  the  martyr-couch  she  goes, 
Regardless  of  her  children's  woes. 
Away  ! — I  would  not  longer  gaze 
On  barbarous  Superstition's  maze. 
—  Time  chang'd  his  glass,  and  bade  me  see 
The  deeds  of  heaven-born  Charity, 
When  fir'd  with  zeal  her  heralds  found 
The  farthest  globe's  benighted  bound. 
And  lo  !  upon  the  frost-bound  shore 
Of  sun-forsaken  Labrador, 
The  heaven- ward  spire,  the  sacred  song, 


MBS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS.  121 

The  Pastor  and  his  listening  throng, 
With  Christian  hope  and  love  supplied 
The  gifts  that  rigorous  Earth  denied. 
And  from  the  classic  clime,  behold  ! 
The  cloud  of  Moslem  wrath  had  roll'd 
Yet  no  proud  lay  of  Attic  lore 
Nor  bacchanal  with  maddening  roar 

Peal'd  from  that  sunny  coast, 
But  infant  voices  lisping  came 
Of  knowledge,  and  a  Saviour's  name, 

Winning  for  Greece  a  higher  fame 

Than  heathen  annals  boast. 
Thou  too,  Oh  Afric  1  undismay'd, 

Reclining  'neath  thy  palm-trees'  shade, 

Dost  mark  with  rapture's  thrilling  tide, 

Enfranchis'd  thousands  seek  thy  side, 

With  filial  hand  thy  tears  to  dry 

And  found  an  empire  for  the  sky. 

— Sad  Zion  !  doth  thy  footstep  stray 

Far  from  thy  temple-shrine  away  1 

Sweet  is  the  breath  of  Sharon's  rose, 

In  limpid  silver  Siloah  flows, 

And  Hermon  woos  the  scented  air, 

Where  art  thou,  blinded  exile  !  where  1 

Return,  thou  homeless  and  opprest, 

And  'neath  Messiah's  sceptre  rest. 

On  waken'd  India's  sultry  shore, 

The  Suttee's  flame  aspires  no  more, 

And  idol-ear,  and  thundering  gong 

And  haughty  priest,  and  pagan  throng 

Recede,  as  darkness  fades  away 

Before  the  morning's  golden  ray. 


122  MRS*    SIGOUENEV'S   POEMS. 

— In  Burmah's  dew-besprinkled  soil 

How  blest  the  laborer's  arduous  toil ; 

'Mid  danger's  blast  their  seed  was  sown, 

The  harvest-fruits  are  God's  alone  : 

Press  on,  firm  band  !  the  martyr's  sigh 

On  fields  like  these,  is  victory. 

— 'Mid  China's  vale,  serenely  bold, 

Their  way  Salvation's  heralds  hold, 

While  millions  pale  with  penury's  strife, 

Hear  wondering  of  the  bread  of  life. 

Broad  Ocean's  isles  in  loud  acclaim 

Extol  the  blest  Redeemer's  name, 

And  Earth  with  countless  tongues  doth  pour 

The  echoing  praise  from  shore  to  shore. 

— Time  pois'd  his  wing,  as  if  for  flight, 

But  of  my  native  land  a  sight, 

With  patriot  ardor  I  besought, 

And  toward  the  west,  his  tube  he  brought. 

I  look'd,  and  skies,  and  vales,  and  streams 

Were  bright  with  nature's  glorious  beams, 

And  from  each  haunt  came  swelling  by 

The  shout  of  boasted  Liberty  ; 

Yet  other  sounds  were  on  the  gale, 

Of  Afric's  sons,  the  bitter  wail, 

The  scourge,  the  chain,  the  bitter  tear 

Of  slavery's  lot,  what  do  they  here  ! 

— I  sought  the  red-brow 'd  race,  who  bore 

Dominion  o'er  this  ancient  shore, 

But  lofty  king,  and  chieftain  grave, 

Had  vanish'd  like  the  crested  wave  ; 

Where  are  those  warriors  brave  and  free  ? 

The  hoarse  tomb  answer'd  "  here  with  me." 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY'S   POEMS.  123 

Time  saw  their  hearth-stones  cold  and  void, 
Their  ancient  sepulchres  destroy'd, 
Resum'd  his  scythe,  in  anger  dread, 
And  broke  my  vision,  as  he  fled. 


ON   READING   THE   MEMOIRS  OF    MRS.  JUDSON. 

I  saw  her  on  the  strand.     Beside  her  smil'd 
Her  land  of  birth,  and  her  beloved  home, 
With  all  their  pageantry  of  tint  and  shade, 
Streamlet  and  vale. 

There  stood  her  childhood's  friends, 
Sweet  sisters,  who  her  inmost  thoughts  had  shar'd, 
And  saint-like  parents,  whose  example  rais'd 
Those  thoughts  to  Heaven.     It  was  a  strong  array, 
And  the  fond  heart  clung  to  its  rooted  loves. 
But  Christ  had  given  a  panoply,  which  Earth 
Might  never  take  away.     And  so  she  turn'd 
To  boisterous  Ocean,  and  with  cheerful  step, 
Though  moisten'd  eye,  forsook  the  cherish'd  clime 
Whose  halcyon  bowers  had  rear'd  her  joyous  youth. 
— I  look'd  again.     It  was  a  foreign  shore. 
The  tropic  sun  had  laid  his  burning  brow 
On  twilight's  lap.     A  gorgeous  palace  caught 
His  last  red  ray.     Hoarsely  the  idol-song 
To  Boodh,  mingled  with  the  breeze  that  curl'd 
Broad  Irrawaddy'stide.     Why  do  ye  point 
To  yon  low  prison  1     Who  is  he  that  gropes 


124  MRS-  sigoubney's  poems. 

Amid  its  darkness,  with  those  fetter'd  limbs  1 
Mad  Pagans  !  do  ye  thus  requite  the  man 
Who  toils  for  your  salvation  1 

See  that  form 
Bending  in  tenderest  sympathy  to  soothe 
The  victim's  sorrow.     Tardy  months  pass  by, 
And  find  her  still  intrepid  at  the  post 
Of  danger  and  of  disappointed  hope. 
Stern  sickness  smote  her,  yet  with  tireless  zeal, 
She  bore  the  hoarded  morsel  to  her  love, 
Dar'd  the  rude  arrogance  of  savage  power, 
To  plead  for  him,  and  bade  his  dungeon  glow, 
With  her  fair  brow,  as  erst  the  angel's  smile 
Arous'd  imprison'd  Peter,  when  his  hands 
From  fetters  loos'd,  were  lifted  high  in  praise. 
— There  was  another  scene,  drawn  by  his  hand 
Whose  icy  pencil  blotteth  out  the  grace 
And  loveliness  of  man.     The  keenest  shaft 
Of  anguish  quivers  in  that  martyr's  breast, 
Who  is  about  to  wash  her  garments  white 
In  her  Redeemer's  blood,  and  glorious  rise 
From  earthly  sorrows  to  a  clime  of  rest. 
— Dark  Burman  faces  are  around  her  bed, 
And  one  pale  babe  is  there,  for  whom  she  checks 
The  death-groan,  clasping  it  in  close  embrace, 
Even  till  the  heart-strings  break. 

Behold,  he  comes 
The  wearied  man  of  God  from  distant  toil. 
His  home,  while  yet  a  misty  speck  it  seems, 
His  straining  eye  detects,  but  marks  no  form 
Of  his  beloved,  hasting  down  the  vale, 
As  wont,  to  meet  him. 


MRS.     SIGOUBNEV's    POEMS.  125 

Say,  what  heathen  lip 
In  its  strange  accents  told  him,  that  on  earth 
Nought  now  remain'd  to  heal  his  wounded  heart, 
Save  that  lone  famish'd  infant  1     Days  of  care 
Were  meted  to  him,  and  long  nights  of  grief 
Weigh'd  out,  and  then  that  little,  wailing  one 
Went  to  her  mother's  bosom,  and  slept  sweet 
'Neath  the  cool  branches  of  the  Hopia-tree. 
'Twas  bitterness  to  think  that  bird-like  voice, 
Which  sang  sweet  hymns  to  please  a  father's  ear, 
Must  breathe  no  more. 

This  is  to  be  alone  ? 
Alone  in  this  wide  world. 

Yet  not  without 
A  comforter.     For  the  true  heart  that  trusts 
Its  all  to  Heaven,  and  sees  its  treasur'd  things 
Unfold  their  hidden  wing,  and  thither  soar, 
Doth  find  itself  drawn  upward  in  their  flight, 
And  poising  higher  o'er  this  vale  of  tears, 
And  gathering  bright  revealings  of  its  home, 
Doth  from  its  sorrows  weave  a  robe  of  praise. 


11* 


126  MRS.    SIGOURNEV's   POEMS. 


THE   SABBATH. 

The  world  is  full  of  toil  ; 

Toil  bids  the  traveler  roam, 
It  binds  the  laborer  to  the  soil, 

The  student  to  his  tome  ; 
The  beasts  of  burden  sigh, 

O'erladen  and  opprest, 
The  Sabbath  lifts  its  banner  high, 

And  gives  the  weary  rest. 

The  world  is  full  of  care  ; 

The  haggard  brow  is  wrought 
In  furrows  as  of  fix'd  despair 

And  check'd  the  heavenward  thought, 
But  with  indignant  grace 

The  Sabbath's  chastening  tone, 
Drives  money-changers  from  the  place 

Which  God  doth  call  his  own. 

The  world  is  full  of  grief ; 

Sorrows  o'er  sorrows  roll, 
Even  hope  that  promises  relief 

Doth  sometimes  pierce  the  soul ; 
But  see  the  Sabbath's  bound 

Bears  Mercy's  holy  seal, 
A  balm  of  Gilead  for  the  wound 

That  man  is  weak  to  heal. 

The  world  is  full  of  sin  ; 
Its  tide,  deceptive  rolls, 


MRS.    SIGOURNEy's    POEMS.  127 

The  unwary  to  its  breast  to  win, 

And  whelm  unstable  souls  ; 
The  Sabbath's  beacon  tells 

Of  reefs  and  wrecks  below, 
And  warns,  tho'  gay  the  billow  swells, 

Beneath,  are  death  and  woe. 

O  glorious  world  !    where  none 

With  fruitless  labor  sigh, 
Where  care  doth  wring  no  lingering  groan, 

And  grief  no  agony  ; 
Where  Sin  with  fatal  arts 

Hath  never  forg'd  her  chains, 
But  deep  enthron'd  in  angel-hearts, 

One  endless  Sabbath  reigns. 


BURIAL  OF    TWO  YOUNG    SISTERS,  THE    ONLY 
CHILDREN  OF  THEIR  PARENTS. 

They're  here,  in  this  turf-bed — those  tender  forms, 
So  kindly  cherished,  and  so  fondly  loved — 
They'' re  here. 

Sweet  sisters  !  pleasant  in  their  lives, 
And  not  in  death  divided.     Sure  'tis  meet 
That  blooming  ones  should  linger  here  and  learn 
How  quick  the  transit  to  the  silent  tomb. 
I  do  remember  them,  their  pleasant  brows 
So  mark'd  with  pure  affections,  and  the  glance 
Of  their  mild  eyes,  when  in  the  house  of  God, 
They  gathered  up  the  manna,  that  did  fall, 
Like  dew,  around. 


128  MRS.  sigourney's  poems. 

The  eldest  parted  first — 
And  it  was  touching  even  to  tears,  to  see     • 
The  perfect  meekness  of  that  child-like  soul, 
Turning-  'mid  sorrow's  chastening  to  its  God, 
And  loosening  every  link  of  earthly  hope, 
To  gird  an  angel's  glorious  garments  on. 

The  younger  lingered  yet  a  little  while, 
Drooping  and  beautiful.     Strongly  the  nerve 
Of  that  lone  spirit  clasped  its  parent-prop  ; 
Yet  still  in  timid  tenderness  embraced 
The  Rock  of  Ages — while  the  Saviour's  voice 
Confirmed  its  trust :  "  Suffer  the  little  ones 
To  come  to  me." 

And  then  her  sister's  couch 
Undrew  its  narrow  covering — and  those  forms, 
Which  side  by  side,  on  the  same  cradle-bed, 
So  often  shared  the  sleep  of  infancy, 
Were  laid  on  that  clay  pillow,  cheek  to  cheek 
And  hand  to  hand,  until  that  morning  break, 
Which  hath  no  night. 

And  ye  are  left  alone, 
Who  nurtured  those  fair  buds,  and  often  said 
Unto  each  other,  in  the  hour  of  care — 
"  These  same  shall  comfort  us  for  all  our  toil." 
Yes,  ye  are  left  alone.     It  is  not  ours 
To  heal  such  wound.     Man  hath  too  weak  a  hand- 
All  he  can  give,  is  tears. 

But  he  who  took 
Your  treasures  to  his  keeping  :  He  hath  power 
To  bear  you  onward  to  that  better  land, 
Where  none  are  written  childless,  and  torn  hearts 
Blend  in  a  full  eternity  of  bliss. 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY'S    POEMS.  129 


VM  VOBIS.* 

"  Vet  Vobis,"  ye  whose  lip  doth  lave 

So  deeply  in  the  sparkling  wine, 
Regardless  though  that  passion-wave 

Shut  from  the  soul,  Heaven's  light  divine, 
"  Vcb  Vobis" — heed  the  trumpet-blast, 

Fly  ! — ere  the  leprous  taint  is  deep, 
Fly  ! — ere  the  hour  of  hope  be  past, 

And  pitying  angels  cease  to  weep. 

"  Vcb  Vobis," — ye  who  fail  to  read 

The  name  that  shines  where'er  ye  tread, 
The  Alpha  of  our  infant  creed, 

The  Omega  of  the  sainted  dead  : 
It  glows  where'er  the  pencil'd  flowers 

Their  tablet  to  the  desert  show, 
Where'er  the  mountain's  rocky  towers 

Frown  darkly  o'er  the  vale  below  : 

Where  roll  the  wondrous  orbs  on  high, 

In  glorious  order,  strong  and  fair, 
In  every  letter  of  the  sky 

That  midnight  writes, — 'tis  there  !  'tis  there  \ 
'Tis  grav'd  on  ocean's  wrinkled  brow, 

And  on  the  shell  that  gems  its  shore, 
And  where  the  solemn  forests  bow, 

"  Vcb  Vobis"  ye,  who  scorn  the  lore. 

11  Vcb  Vobis"  all  who  trust  in  earth, 
Who  lean  on  reeds  that  pierce  the  breast, 
*  "  Wo  unto  you," 


130  MRS«  sigourney's  poems. 

Who  toss  the  bubble-cup  of  mirth, 

Or  grasp  ambition's  storm-wreath'd  crest : 

Who  early  rise,  and  late  take  rest, 

In  Mammon's  mine,  the  care-worn  slave, 

Who  find  each  phantom-race  unblest, 
Yet  shrink  reluctant  from  the  grave. 


THE   BIBLE   CLASS   IN  THE  CONNECTICUT 
STATE   PRISON. 

I  saw  them  bending-  o'er  that  holy  page, 
Whose  breath  is  immortality.     There  seemed 
No  sadness  on  their  features  ;  to  their  limbs 
No  fetters  clung  ;  and  they  whose  early  years 
Had  told  dark  tales  of  wretchedness  and  shame, 
Lifted  a  calm,  clear  eye. 

Amazed,  I  asked, 
Is  this  a  prison  1  and  are  these  the  men 
Whom  Justice  from  the  world's  sweet  fellowship 
Hath  sternly  severed  ? 

But  a  voice  replied, 
God's  spirit  hath  been  here.     Serene  it  came 
Into  the  cells  where  guilt  and  punishment 
Rivet  their  chains,  making  the  victim's  life 
A  hated  burden,  and  his  hope  despair  ! 

It  came  !     Rebellion  laid  his  weapons  down  ; 
The  flinty  breast  grew  soft :  the  rugged  brow 
Gave  channels  for  the  tear  of  penitence  ; 
And  souls,  which  sin  had  blotted  from  their  race 


MBS.    SIGOURNEY'S   POEMS.  131 

As  a  fou]  gangrene,  to  the  Healer  turned, 
Bathed,  and  were  whole. 

So  now  with  humble  step 
Their  penal  course  they  measure,  giving  still 
The  day  to  toil,  and  meeting  every  night, 
In  solitude,  reflection's  chastening  glance, 
Which  wounds  to  purify.     There,  too,  doth  glide 
Fair  Charity,  prompting  to  deeds  divine 
The  unaccustomed  pupil,  while  he  cons, 
'Mid  the  deep  silence  of  a  lonely  bed, 
His  Bible  lesson  ;  seeks  a  deeper  root 
For  Christian  purpose,  or  anticipates 
Glad  Freedom's  sacred  gift. 

Ye  whom  our  God 
Hath  held  from  deep  transgression,  be  not  proud  ; 
Nor,  in  the  heat  of  passion,  haste  to  weigh 
A  brother's  fault.     The  eternal  Judge  himself 
(When  by  the  sin  of  ingrate  Adam  moved) 
Came  not  to  Eden  till  the  cool  of  day. 
And  since  that  hour,  when  first  the  vengeful  sword 
Wav'd  o'er  the  forfeit  gate  of  Paradise, 
Man  hath  been  wayward,  weak,  and  prone  to  fall 
Beneath  temptation's  wile,  and  so  must  be 
Unto  the  dooms-day  burning. 

Then  let  his  bitterest  discipline  be  mixed 
In  Mercy's  cup,  that  so  the  prison  cell 
May  work  his  soul's  salvation  ;  and  the  "  law, 
Like  school-master"  severe,  the  truant  bring 
To  Christ,  his  advocate  and  righteousness. 


132  Mas-  sigourney's  poeMs. 


DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY  AT  THE  RETREAT 

FOR  THE  INSANE. 
Youth  glows  upon  her  blossom'd  cheek, 

Glad  beauty  in  her  eye, 
And  fond  affections  pure  and  meek 

Her  every  want  supply  : 
Why  doth  her  glance  so  wildly  rove 

Some  fancied  foe  to  find  ? 
What  dark  dregs  stir  her  cup  of  love? 

Go  ask  the  sickening  mind ! 

They  bear  her  where  with  cheering  smile 

The  hope  of  healing  reigns 
For  those  whom  morbid  Fancy's  wile 

In  torturing  bond  constrains  ; 
Where  Mercy  spreads  an  angel-wing 

To  do  her  Father's  will, 
And  heaven-instructed  plucks  the  sting 

From  Earth's  severest  ill. 

Yet  o'er  that  sufferer's  drooping  head 

No  balm  of  Gilead  stole, 
Diseas'd  Imagination  spread 

Dark  chaos  o'er  the  soul  ; 
But  recollected  truths  sublime 

Still  fed  Devotion's  stream, 
And  beings  from  a  sinless  clime 

Blent  with  her  broken  dream. 


Then  came  a  coffin  and  a  shroud, 
And  many  a  bursting  sigh 


MRS.    SIGOUHXEY'S    POEMS.  133 

With  shrieks  of  laughter  long  and  loud, 

From  those  who  knew  not  why; 
For  she,  whom  Reason's  fickle  ray 

Oft  wilder'd  and  distress'd 
Hush'd  in  unwonted  slumber  lay, 

A  cold  and  dreamless  rest. 

Think  ye  of  Heaven  !  how  glorious  bright 

Will  break  its  vision  clear, 
On  souls  that  rose  from  earthly  night 

All  desolate  and  drear  ; 
So  ye  who  laid  that  stricken  form 

Down  to  its  willing  sleep, 
Snatch'd  like  a  flowret  from  the  storm, 

Weep  not  as  others  weep. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  AN  ALBUM. 

Gleaner  !  the  field's  before  thee.     Many  a  sheaf 

Whiteneth  the  ground,  which  thou  may'st  freely  take 

Into  thy  garner.     Friendship's  clusters  bend 

In  ruddy  ripeness,  and  the  flowers  of  Love 

Breath  fresh  perfume  for  thee.     Go,  ask  of  Wit 

His  sparkling  diamond,  win  from  Fancy's  hand 

Her  frost-work  talisman,  from  Mirth  require 

Such  garland  as  she  weaves  in  Music's  bower, 

And  search  for  gold  in  Wisdom's  heaven-wrought  mine. 

Perchance  the  hoary  Sage  a  gem  may  grant 
12 


134  MRS-  sigourney's  poems. 

Of  rich  experience,  or  some  timid  child 
In  tender  meekness  deck  thy  pencil'd  vase. 
And  as  the  Gleaner  from  the  fruitful  fields 
Of  Boaz,  gathering  where  the  reapers  strew'd, 
Came  to  her  Mother  at  the  close  of  day 
With  welcome  store  and  brightly  glowing  smile, 
So  bring  thy  gifts  to  Memory's  treasure-shrine. 


DEATH  OF  A   SON    OF    THE    LATE    HONORABLE 
FISHER  AMES. 

'Tis  o'er.     The  bolt  that  rends  trie  sky 

And  rives  the  lordly  tree, 
Doth  scarcely  work  so  strange  a  deed 

As  Death  hath  done  for  thee  : 
And  so  we  lay  thee  in  the  tomb, 

Son  of  a  patriot  line, 
Let  not  majestic  manhood  boast 

Who  sees  a  grave  like  thine. 

And  She  is  there,  that  honor'd  form 

O'er  whom  thy  filial  care, 
Did  shed  such  hallow'd  charm  as  made 

Life's  lonely  winter  fair  ; 
That  mother  mourns,  whose  hand  so  oft 

Within  this  funeral  shade, 
Hath  with  a  meek,  unchanging  trust 

Her  cherish'd  idols  laid. 


MRS.    SIGOURNEy's    POEMS.  135 

We  go  the  way  their  steps  have  trod, 

From  love's  forsaken  bowers  : 
Their  simple  shroud,  their  narrow  house, 

Their  lowly  bed  are  ours  ; 
And  in  those  mansions  of  the  soul 

Where  tear  was  never  shed, 
Doubt  not  there  yet  is  room  for  us, 

For  so  the  Saviour  said. 

Oh  could  we  cheerfully  to  God 

Yield  back  the  friends  he  gave, 
Or  with  such  tear  as  Jesus  shed 

Bedew  their  peaceful  grave, 
How  pure  from  the  Refiner's  hand 

The  spirit's  gold  would  rise, 
And  Faith  from  transient  sorrow  gain 

New  fitness  for  the  skies. 


"THEY   SAID   SHE    WAS  ALONE.' 

They  said  she  was  alone> — and  that  she  stood 
Amid  the  corpses  of  her  three  fair  babes, 
And  by  his  side  who  to  her  heart  had  been 
Lover  and  comforter  for  many  a  year, 
And  that  he  too  was  dead.     Amaz'd  I  look'd 
To  see  if  it  were  so, — and  on  his  lip 
There  was  no  breath,  and  in  his  eye  no  light. 
—  They  said  she  was  alone.     And  many  wept 
In  company  with  her.     For  he  had  fallen 


136  MRS-  sigourney's  poems. 

Who  was  their  guide  to  everlasting  life, 
Their  oracle  in  doubt,  the  friend  who  pour'd 
The  interceding  prayer  when  death  was  nigh, 
Or  the  tomb  open'd,  for  its  "  dust  to  dust.'''' 
— They  said  she  loas  alone.     But  when  I  turn'd 
To  look  upon  her, — in  her  breast  there  lay 
A  tender  blossom  of  mortality 
New-born  and  beautiful.     Methought  the  babe 
Did  bear  the  features  of  its  buried  sire, 
And  at  the  moaning  of  its  timid  voice, 
Or  its  appealing  smile,  the  lonely  heart 
Rose  in  its  brokenness,  and  took  the  joy 
That  pays  a  mother's  care.     And  so  I  thank'd 
The  Father  of  our  Mercies,  who  doth  watch 
Our  frames  so  tenderly,  and  prop  the  strength 
Of  those  he  smiteth,  and  infuse  the  drops 
Of  holy  healing  in  the  cup  of  grief, 
That  none  may  sink  beneath  his  keen  rebuke, 
But  walk  in  patience  and  in  chastened  hope 
On  to  the  land  which  hath  no  need  that  pain 
Should  be  the  teacher  of  its  sinless  host. 


MBS.    SIGOURNEv's    POEMS.  137 


FAREWELL. 

Farewell !  it  hath  a  sombre  tone, 

The  lip  is  slow  to  take  it, 
It  seemeth  like  the  willow's  moan 

When  autumn  winds  awake  it ; 
It  seemeth  like  the  distant  sea 

On  some  lone  islet  sighing-, 
And  yet  thou  say'st  it  unto  me, 

And  wait'st  for  my  replying. 

Farewell !  thou  fly'st  from  Winter's  wrath 

'Mid  southern  bowers  to  hide  thee, 
May  freshest  roses  deck  thy  path, 

Yet  bring  no  thorn  to  chide  thee ; 
And  may'st  thou  find  that  better  land 

Where  no  bright  dream  is  broken, 
No  flower  shall  fade  in  beauty's  hand, 

And  no  farewell  be  spoken. 


12* 


138  MRS-  sigourney's  poems. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  LADY  AT  HAVANA,  WHITHER 
SHE  WENT  FOR  HER  HEALTH. 

Ye  say  that  with  a  smile  she  past 

Forth  from  her  hallow'd  bower, 
That  her  dark  eye  strange  brilliance  cast, 

To  gild  the  parting  hour  ; 
That  on  her  cheek  with  radiance  rare 

A  kindling1  flush  did  burn, 
Ye  view'd  it  as  the  promise  fair 

Of  health  and  glad  return. 

In  many  a  fond  and  friendly  breast 

Did  parting  sorrows  stir, 
And  many  a  lip  with  trembling  blest 

That  lovely  voyager ; 
Light  sped  the  white  sail  o'er  the  wave, 

And  gathering  to  her  side, 
True  hearts  that  strove  to  shield  and  save, 

Her  every  wish  supplied. 

And  still  upon  that  tossing  sea, 

Her  idol  boy  was  near, 
And  tunefully  his  caroll'd  glee 

Fell  on  a  mother's  ear  ; 
And  well  his  glance  its  joy  exprest 

To  watch  the  sea-bird's  flight, 
Or  trace  amid  the  billow's  crest 

The  phosphorescent  light. 

They  sought  that  Isle,  by  beam  and  breeze, 
In  changeless  beauty  drest, 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY  S   POEMS. 

Where  the  "world-seeking  Genoese" 

Doth  find  a  peaceful  rest ; 
But  there  where  Winter's  tempest  gloom 

Hath  never  dar'd  to  roll, 
Where  Nature's  flowers  profusely  bloom, 

Went  down  that  flower  of  soul. 

And  far  within  her  native  west 

Where  glorious  foliage  waves, 
And  where  in  recent  verdure  drest, 

Are  seen  her  kindred  grave?, 
The  memory  of  her  cradle-sleep, 

Her  childhood's  glowing  charms, 
Her  ripen'd  virtues,  rich  and  deep, 

Affection's  tear  embalms. 

Yet  let  not  mourning  Love  despair, 

Within  these  smitten  shades, 
The  cypress  wreath  hath  blossoms  fair 

Of  hope  that  never  fades  ; 
'Twas  her's  to  bless  the  haunts  of  pain, 

To  love  the  good  and  wise, 
And  lightly  chasten'd,  rise  to  gain 

The  bliss  that  never  dies. 


139 


140  MBS"   SIGOURNEY  S  POEMS. 


DEATH'S  CHOSEN  ALLY. 

The  shadowy  Monarch  frown'd  upon  his  throne, 

O'erwearied  and  displeased. — "  Behold,  my  task, 

Since  him  of  Eden  felt  a  brother's  hate, 

Down  to  the  brow  that  blanches  as  I  speak, 

Hath  known  no  respite.     Would  that  there  were  one 

With  whom  to  trust  my  cares  awhile,  and  snatch 

One  moment  of  repose.     Ho  !  ye  who  wait ! 

Give  notice,  that  with  him  most  worthy  found 

By  previous  deeds  to  waste  the  race  of  man, 

The  King  of  Terrors  will  delight  to  share 

The  glory  of  his  kingdom." 

Mighty  winds 
Swollen  up  to  earthquake  violence,  and  tones 
Of  many  waters,  like  wild,  warring  seas, 
Clamor'd  the  edict,  while  the  lightning's  spear 
Wrote  it  in  flame  on  every  winged  cloud : 
Yea,  with  such  zeal  the  elements  conspir'd 
To  publish  the  decree,  methought  there  lurk'd 
In  each,  some  latent,  lingering  hope,  to  win 
The  promis'd  regency. 

The  passions  came, 
Thron'd  on  their  storm-clouds,  and  with  varied  voice, 
Thundering  or  eloquent,  as  best  beseem'd 
Their  several  natures,  boasted  how  to  staunch 
Life's  countless  springs.     But  to  their  claims  pale  Death 
Gave  credence  cold. 

Next,  fleshless  Famine  rose 
Up  like  a  charne] -ghost,  while  Pestilence 
Came  stalking  on,  with  quiver  ever  full ; 


MRS.    SIGOCENEy's    POEMS.  141 

And  ever  in  her  ears  a  mournful  sound, — 
The  weeping  of  the  nations. 

Loudly  shriek'd 
A  martial  trump,  and  on  his  banner'd  car 
War  like  a  sovereign  came.     Unnumber'd  spoils 
Were  strew'd  around  him,  and  the  blood  of  men 
Flow'd  as  a  river,  'neath  his  chariot  wheels. 
His  eagle  eye  the  promis'd  honor  scann'd, 
As  an  undoubted  right.     But  still  stern  Death 
Ponder'd,  and  spake  not,  till,  with  haughty  pride, 
The  candidate  withdrew,  and  trembling  Earth 
Shrank  at  his  kindled  rage. 

There  was  a  pause, 
As  if  none  dare  in  that  foil'd  champion's  steps 
Essay  to  tread.     At  length,  a  bloated  form 
Mov'd  slowly  on,  with  mix'd  and  maddening  bowl ; 
But  ere  the  footstool  of  the  throne  he  press'd, 
Death,  with  a  father's  fondness,  hasting  down, 
Embraced,  and  in  the  seat  of  empire  plac'd. 
Great  was  the  wonder,  but  none  dare  gainsay  ; 
And  with  a  fearful  shout  all  Nature's  foes, 
Diseases,  passions,  wars  and  sins,  pronounced 
Intemperance  their  king  ;  and  at  his  feet 
Their  boasted,  time-cemented  trophies  cast. 


142  MRS.    SIGOURNE^'s    POEMS. 


"  Is  it  well  with  the  child  ?    And  she  answered,    It  is  well."— 
2  Kings  iv.  26. 

"  Is  it  well  with  the  child  ?"— And  she  answer'd  "  'Tis  well ;" 

But  I  gaz'd  on  the  mother  who  spake, 
For  the  tremulous  tear  as  it  sprang  from  its  cell, 

Bade  a  doubt  in  my  bosom  awake  ; 
And  I  mark'd  that  the  bloom  from  her  features  had  fled, 

So  late  in  their  loveliness  rare, 
And  the  hue  of  the  watcher  that  bends  o'er  the  dead, 

Was  gathering  in  pensiveness  there. 

"  Is  it  well  with  the  child?" — And  she  answer'd  "  <Tis  well" 

I  remember'd  its  beauty  and  grace, 
When  the  tones  of  its  laughter  did  tunefully  swell 

In  affection's  delighted  embrace  : 
And  thro'  their  long  fringe,  as  it  rose  from  its  sleep, 

Its  eyes  beam'd  a  rapturous  ray, 
And  I  wonder'd  that  silence  should  settle  so  deep 

O'er  the  home  of  a  being  so  gay. 

"  Is  it  well  with  the  child  VI — And  she  said,  uIt  is  well." 

It  hath  tasted  of  sickness  and  pain, 
Of  the  pang  and  the  groan,  and  the  gasp  it  might  tell, 

It  never  will  suffer  again. 
In  my  dreams,  as  an  angel,  it  stands  by  my  side, 

In  the  garments  of  glory  and  love  ; 
And  I  hear  its  glad  lays  to  the  Saviour  who  died, 

'Mid  the  choir  of  the  blessed  above. 


MRS.    SIGOUfiNEY's   POEMS.  143 

THE   BABE  BEREAVED   OF   ITS    MOTHER. 

Fair  is  the  tint  of  bloom, 

That  decks  thy  brow,  my  child  ; 
And  bright  thine  eye  looks  forth  from  sleep, 

Still  eloquent  and  mild  ; 
But  she,  who  would  have  joy'd 

Those  opening  charms  to  see, 
And  clasp'd  thee  in  her  sheltering  arms 

With  rapture — where  is  she  ? 

To  heed  thine  every  want 

The  watch  of  Love  is  near, 
And  all  thy  feeble  plaints  are  heard 

With  sympathy  sincere ; 
Yet  she,  to  whom  that  care 

Had  been  most  deeply  dear, 
Who  bare  thee  on  her  ceaseless  prayer, 

The  mother — is  not  here. 

Soon  will  these  lips  of  rose 

Their  new-born  speech  essay, 
But  when  thy  little  hopes  and  fears 

Win  forth  their  lisping  way, 
The  ear  that  would  have  lov'd 

Their  dove-like  music  best, 
Lies  mouldering  in  the  lowly  bed 

Of  death's  unbroken  rest. 

Babe  ! — tho'  thou  may'st  not  call 

Thy  mother  from  the  dead, 
Yet  canst  thou  learn  the  way  she  went, 

And  in  her  footsteps  tread  ; 


144  MRS«  sigourney's  poems. 

For  sure  that  path  will  lead 

Up  to  a  glorious  home, 
Where  happy  spirits  never  part, 

And  evil  cannot  come. 

Her's  was  the  hope  that  glows 

Unwavering  and  serene, 
The  chasten'd  spirit's  meek  repose 

In  every  changeful  scene  ; 
Her's  was  the  victor-power 

When  mortal  anguish  came, — 
Child  !— be  thy  holy  trust  thro'  life, 

Thy  peace  in  death,  the  same. 


FUNERAL  IN  A  NEW  COLONY. 

Amid  the  forest-skirted  plain 

A  few  rude  cabins  spread, 
And  from  their  doors  a  humble  train 

Pass'd  forth  with  drooping  head  ; 
They  hied  them  to  the  dead  man's  home, 

Lone  hearth,  and  vacant  chair, 
Deep  sorrow  dimm'd  that  lowly  dome, 

Yet  rose  no  voice  of  prayer. 

His  widow'd  wife  was  weeping  loud, 

While  closely  to  her  breast, 
Affrighted  at  the  unwonted  crowd, 

A  wondering  infant  prest, 


MRS.   SIGOUBNEY'S    POEMS.  145 

His  aged  mother  bending  low 

With  poverty  and  care, 
Sent  forth  a  feeble  wail  of  woe, — 

Where  was  the  soothing  prayer  ? 

They  bare  him  through  his  cultured  land, 

They  halted  not  to  weep  ; 
That  corn  was  planted  by  his  hand, 

Who  shall  its  harvest  reap  1 
On,  on,  beneath  his  favorite  trees 

That  coffin'd  corpse  they  bear, 
And  sighing  sound  was  on  the  breeze, 

But  still  no  voice  of  prayer. 

Where  his  own  plough  had  broke  the  soil, 

A  narrow  grave  was  made, 
And  'mid  the  trophies  of  his  toil 

The  Emigrant  they  laid  ; 
But  none  the  balm  of  Heaven  to  shed, 

With  priestly  power  was  there, 
No  hallow'd  lip  above  the  dead 

To  lift  the  voice  of  prayer. 


13 


146  MRS-  sigourney's  poems. 

DEATH  OF  THE  REV.  ALFRED  MITCHELL. 

One  of  his  last  inquiries  was, "  Am  I  so  near  my  home'?'" 

So  near  thy  home,  blest  saint  1     Thy  Father's  house 

Hath  many  mansions,  if  it  were  not  so 

He  would  have  told  thee,  who  hath  there  prepar'd 

A  place  for  thee,  his  servant.     Earth's  array 

Of  charms  was  strong  to  tempt  thy  lingering  love. 

The  fond  communings  round  thy  native  hearth, 

Where  'mid  the  honor'd  and  the  blest  did  blend 

Soul  deep  with  soul,  thy  own  unclouded  home, 

Thy  answer'd  sympathies,  thy  hallow'd  hopes, 

A  parent's  joys  close  clustering  round  thy  heart, 

The  flock  that  gather'd  near  thee,  pleas'd  to  learn 

From  thy  mild  eye  and  lip  benign,  the  will 

Of  the  Chief  Shepherd, — ties  like  these  were  thine. 

— And  one  there  is,  who  with  a  widow'd  heart 

Through  the  lone  shadows  of  life's  pilgrim-path, 

Will  follow  in  thy  footsteps,  even  as  thou 

Didst  follow  Christ. 

Thy  pleasant  spot  of  birth 
Is  sad  without  thee,  and  an  ancient  head 
Circled  with  years  and  blessings  as  a  crown 
Bows  low  with  the  first  pang  thou  e'er  didst  cause 
A  father's  bosom.     Ah  !  and  there  are  tears 
Of  tender  love  in  many  an  eye  for  thee, 
Sackcloth  and  ashes  in  the  house  of  God. 
'Tis  well.     Pure  spirits  should  not  pass  unmourn'd, 
This  earth  is  poor  without  them.     But  a  view 
Of  better  climes  broke  on  thee,  and  thy  soul 


MRS.  SIGOCBXEy's    POEMS.  147 

Rose  o'er  its  stricken  tent  with  outspread  wing- 
Of  seraph  rapture  :  for  to  reach  a  home 
Where  is  no  restless  hope,  no  vain  desire, 
No  film  o'er  faith's  bright  eye,  for  love  no  blight, 
Is  glorious  gain  :  and  lo  !  that  home  is  thine. 


"DEPART,  CHRISTIAN  SOUL." 

Depart,  depart !  The  silver  cord  is  breaking1, 
The  sun-ray  fades  before  thy  darken'd  sight, 

The  subtle  essence  from  the  clod  is  taking 
Mid  groans  and  pangs  its  everlasting  flight ; 

Lingerest  thou  fearful !  Christ  the  grave  hath  blest, 
He,  in  that  lowly  couch  did  deign  to  take  his  rest. 

Depart !  thy  sojourn  here  hath  been  in  sorrow, 
Tears  were  thy  meat  along  thy  thorn-clad  path, 

The  hope  of  eve  was  but  a  clouded  morrow, 
And  sin  appall'd  thee  with  thy  Maker's  wrath, 

Earth  gave  her  lessons  in  a  tempest- voice 

Thy  discipline  is  ended.     Chasten'd  one,  rejoice  ! 

Thou  wert  a  stranger  here,  and  all  thy  trouble 
To  bind  a  wreath  upon  the  brow  of  pain, 

To  build  a  bower  upon  the  watery  bubble 

Or  strike  an  anchor  'neath  its  depths,  was  vain  ; 

Depart !  Depart !  All  tears  are  wiped  away, 

Thy  seraph-marshall'd  road  is  toward  the  realm  of  day. 


148  MRS-  sigodbney's  poems. 


DEATH  OF  THE   REV.   W.   C.   WALTON. 

So,  from  the  field  of  labor,  thou  art  gone 
To  thy  reward, — like  him  who  putteth  off 
His  outer  garment,  at  the  noon-tide  hour, 
To  take  a  quiet  sleep.     Thy  zeal  hath  run 
Its  course  untiring,  and  thy  quicken'd  love 
Where'er  thy  Master  pointed,  joy'd  to  go. 
— Amid  thy  faithful  toil,  his  summons  came, 
Warning  thee  home, — and  thou  didst  loose  thy  heart 
From  thy  fond  flock,  and  from  affection's  bonds, 
And  from  thy  blessed  children's  warm  embrace, 
With  smiles,  and  songs  of  praise. 

Death  smote  thee  sore, 
And  plung'd  his  keen  shaft  in  the  quivering  nerve, 
Making  the  breath  that  stirr'd  life's  broken  valve, 
A  torturing  gasp,  but  with  thy  martyrdom, 
Were  smiles,  and  songs  of  praise. 

And  thou  didst  rise 
Above  the  pealing  of  these  Sabbath  bells 
Up  to  that  glorious  and  unspotted  Church, 
Whose  worship  is  eternal. 

Would  that  all 
Who  love  our  Lord,  might  with  thy  welcome  look 
On  the  last  foe,  not  as  a  spoiler  sent 
To  wreck  their  treasures,  and  to  blast  their  joys, 
But  as  a  friend,  who  wraps  the  weary  clay 
With  earth,  its  mother,  and  doth  raise  the  soul 
To  that  blest  consummation,  which  its  prayers 
Unceasingly  besought,  tho'  its  blest  hopes 
But  faintly  shadow'd  forth. 


}ir=.  sigourxey's  poems.  149 

So,  tho'  we  hear 
Thy  voice  on  earth  no  more,  the  holy  hymn 
With  which  thou  down  to  Jordan's  shore  didst  pass, 
To  take  thy  last,  cold  baptism,  still  shall  waft 
As  from  some  cloud  its  echo'd  sweetness  back, 
To  teach  us  of  the  melody  of  Heaven. 


"IT  IS  FINISH'D." 

The  harp  of  prophecy  was  hush'd, 
Strange  tones  its  music  drown, 

For  angel-choirs  to  Bethlehem's  vales 
With  songs  of  peace  came  down, 

And  Christ  to  Calvary  went  forth, 
Wearing  his  thorny  crown. 

Asunder  clave  the  rifted  rocks, 
The  quaking  Earth  did  wail, 

Thick  darkness  came  at  noon-day  up 
The  shrinking  Sun  to  veil, 

And  from  the  mouldering  charnel-house 
Stalk'd  forth  the  tenants  pale. 

"'Tis  finish' d,"  cried  the  Son  of  God, 

And  yielded  up  the  ghost, 
"  'Tis finished"  echoed  far  and  wide 
The  bright,  celestial  coast, 
And  Man,  the  sinner,  shouted  high 
Amid  the  ransom'd  host. 
13* 


150  MRS.    SIGOUENEY'S   POEMS 


"SHE  IS  NOT  DEAD,  BUT  SLEEPETH" 

Not  dead  ?     A  marble  seal  is  prest, 

Where  her  bright  glance  did  part, 
A  weight  is  on  the  pulseless  breast, 

And  ice  around  the  heart ; 
No  more  she  wakes  with  greeting  smile, 

Gay  voice,  and  buoyant  tread, 
But  yet  ye  calmly  say  the  while, 

She  sleeps,  she  is  not  dead. 


"  Mourn'st  thou  for  clay  alone?"     Behold 

A  voice  from  Heaven  replied, 
"  Then  be  thine  anguish  uncontrol'd, 

Thy  tears  a  heathen  tide  ; 
Thine  idol  was  that  vestment  fair 

Which  wraps  the  spirit  free, 
Earth,  air  and  water  claim  their  share, 

Say  !  which  shall  comfort  thee  1 

But  the  strong  mind  whose  heaven-born  thought 

No  earthly  chain  could  bind, 
The  holy  heart  divinely  fraught 

With  love  to  all  mankind, 
The  humble  soul  whose  early  trust 

Was  with  its  God  on  high, 
These  were  thy  Sister,  who  in  dust 

May  sleep,  but  cannot  die." 


MRS.    SIGOUKNEY  S   POEMS.  151 

THE  JOURNEY  WITH  THE  DEAD. 

They  journey  'neath  the  summer  sky, 

A  lov'd  and  loving  train, 
But  Nature  spreads  her  genial  charms 

To  lure  their  souls  in  vain, 
Husband  and  wife  and  child  are  there, 

Warm-hearted,  true  and  kind, 
Yet  every  kindred  lip  is  seal'd, 

And  every  head  declin'd. 

Weary  and  sad,  their  course  is  bent 

To  seek  an  ancient  dome, 
Where  hospitality  hath  made 

A  long-remember'd  home ; 
And  one  with  mournful  care  they  bring 

Whose  footstep  erst  was  gay 
Amid  these  halls  ;  why  comes  she  now 

In  sorrow's  dark  array  1 

Here  fell  a  sainted  grandsire's  prayer 

Upon  her  infant  rest, 
And  with  the  love  of  ripen'd  years 

The  cherish'd  haunt  was  blest ; 
Here  was  the  talisman  that  bade 

Her  heart's  blood  sparkle  high, 
Why  steals  no  flush  across  her  cheek  t 

No  lightning  to  her  eye  1 

They  bear  her  to  the  house  of  God, 

But  though  that  hallow'd  spot 
Is  fill'd  with  prayer  from  lips  she  lov'd 

Her  voice  respondeth  not, 


152  MRS.   SIGOURNEY'S   POEMS. 

She  heedeth  not,  she  heedeth  not, 

She,  who  from  early  days 
Had  joy'd  within  that  holy  Church 

To  swell  Jehovah's  praise. 

Then  onward  toward  a  narrow  cell 

They  tread  the  grass-grown  track 
From  whence  the  unreturning  guest 

Doth  send  no  tidings  back  ;  * 
There  sleeps  the  grandsire  high  and  brave 

In  freedom's  battles  tried,* 
With  him  whose  banner  was  the  cross 

Of  Jesus  crucified. 

Down  by  those  hoary  chiefs  she  laid 

Her  young,  unfrosted  head, 
To  rise  no  more,  until  the  voice 

Of  Jesus  wakes  the  dead, 
From  her  own  dear,  domestic  bower, 

From  deep,  confiding  love, 
From  earth's  unshaded  smile,  she  turn'd 

To  purer  bliss  above. 


PRISONERS'  EVENING  HYMN. 

Written  for  the  Females  in  the  Connecticut  State  Prison 
The  silent  curtains  of  the  night 

Each  lonely  cell  surround, 
God's  dwelling  is  in  perfect  light, 
His  mercy  hath  no  bound. 

*  General  Putnam 


MRS.    SIGOCRXEY's    POEMS.  153 

Still  on  the  sinful  and  the  vile 

His  daily  bounties  fall, 
Still  comes  the  sun  with  cheerful  smile 

Dispensing  good  to  all. 

The  way  of  wickedness  is  hard, 

Its  bitter  fruits  we  know, 
Shame  in  this  world  is  its  reward, 

And  in  the  future,  woe. 

Oh  Thou  !  who  see'st  us  while  we  pay 

The  penance  of  our  guilt, 
Cast  not  our  souls  condemn'd  away, 

Christ's  blood  for  us  was  spilt. 

Deep  root  within  a  heart  subdued 

May  true  repentance  take, 
And  be  its  fruits  a  life  renew'd, 

For  the  Redeemer's  sake. 

Uplift  our  spirits  from  the  ground, 

Give  to  our  darkness,  light. 
Oh  Thou  !  whose  mercies  have  no  bound, 

Preserve  us  safe  this  nicrht. 


154  MRS.    SIGOUENEY'S    POEMS. 


THE  HUGUENOT  PASTOR  . 

During  the  persecution  of  the  Huguenots  in  France,  soon  after  the 
revocation  of  the  edict  of  Nantz,  one  of  their  ministers,  possessed  of 
great  learning  and  piety,  having  witnessed  the  demolition  of  his  own 
Church  at  Montpelier,  was  induced  by  the  solicitations  of  his  people, 
to  preach  to  them  in  the  night,  upon  its  ruins.  For  this  offence,  he 
was  condemned  to  be  broken  on  the  wheel. 

Behold  him  on  the  ruins, — not  of  fanes 

With  ivy  mantled,  which  the  touch  of  time 

Hath  slowly  crumbled, — but  amid  the  wreck 

Of  his  own  temple,  by  infuriate  hands 

In  shapeless  masses,  and  rude  fragments  strown 

Wide  o'er  the  trampled  turf.     Serene  he  stood, 

A  pale,  sad  beauty  on  his  youthful  brow, 

With  eyes  uprais'd.  as  if  his  stricken  soul 

Fled  from  material  things.     Where  was  the  spire 

That  solemn  through  those  chestnut  trees  looked  forth  1 

The  tower,  the  arch,  the  altar  whence  he  bless'd 

A  kneeling  throng  1  the  font  where  infancy 

Rais'd  in  his  arms  to  God  was  consecrate, 

An  incense-breathing  bud  1     Not  on  such  themes 

Dar'd  his  fond  thoughts  to  dwell,  but  firm  in  faith 

He  lifted  up  his  voice,  and  spake  of  Heaven 

Where  desolations  come  not. 

Midnight  hung 
Dreary  and  dense  around,  and  the  lone  lamp 
That  o'er  his  Bible  stream'd,  hung  tremulous 
Beneath  the  fitful  gale. 

There,  resting  deep 
Upon  the  planted  staff,  were  aged  men, 
The  grave's  white  tokens  in  their  scatter'd  hair, 


MBS.    SIGOUENEy's    POEMS.  155 

And  youthful  forms,  with  gaze  intensely  fix'd 

On  their  beloved  Pastor,  as  he  taught 

Of  Christ  their  righteousness,  while  here  and  there 

A  group  of  mourning  mothers  from  whose  arms 

Their  babes  by  persecution's  rage  were  torn 

Blent  with  their  listening,  the  low  sob  of  grief. 

Close  by  their  fathers'  knees,  young  children  cower'd 

And  in  each  echoing  footstep  fear'd  a  foe. 

— It  was  a  time  of  trouble,  and  the  flock 

Came  hungering  for  that  heavenly  bread  which  gives 

Strength  to  the  heavy  laden.     'Twas  a  scene 

That  France  might  well  have  wept  with  tears  of  blood 

But  in  the  madness  of  a  dire  disease 

She  slew  her  faithful  sons,  and  urg'd  the  sword 

'Gainst  her  own  vitals. 

Lo  !  the  dawn  is  out, 
With  her  grey  banner,  and  the  parting  flock 
Seek  their  own  homes,  praising  the  Hand  that  spares 
Their  faithful  shepherd.     Silent  evening  wakes 
Far  different  orgies.     Yonder  mangled  form 
Sinking  'neath  murderous  fury,  can  ye  trace 
Its  lineaments  of  beauty,  'mid  the  wreck 
Of  anguish  and  distortion  1     Son  of  God  ! 
Is  this  thy  messenger,  whose  voice  so  late 
Thrill'd  with  an  angel's  sweetness,  as  it  pour'd 
Thy  blessing  on  the  people  1 

Yet,  be  still, 
And  breathe  no  bitter  thought  above  his  dust, 
Who  served  the  Prince  of  Peace.     The  spirit  of  love 
Did  make  that  lifeless  breast  its  temple-shrine, 
Offend  it  not.     But  raise  with  tender  hand 
Those  blood-stain'd  curls,  and  shed  the  pitying  tear. 


156  MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS. 

— That  marble  lip  no  more  can  bless  its  foes, 
But  from  the  rack  of  martyrdom,  the  soul 
Hath  risen  in  radiance,  o'er  the  strife  of  man. 


HOME  MISSIONS. 

Turn  thee  to  thine  own  broad  waters, 

Labor  in  thy  native  earth, 
Call  salvation's  sons  and  daughters 

From  the  clime  that  gave  thee  birth. 

Here  are  pilgrim-souls  benighted, 

Here  are  evils  to  be  slain, 
Graces  in  their  budding  blighted, 

Spirits  bound  in  error's  chain. 

Raise  the  Gospel's  glorious  streamer 
Where  yon  cloud-topp'd  forest  waves, 

Follower  of  the  meek  Redeemer 
Serve  him  'mid  thy  fathers'  graves. 


"  THIS  IS  NOT  YOUR  REST." 

When  Heaven's  unerring   pencil  writes,  on  every  pilgrim's 

breast, 
Its  passport  to  Time's  changeful  shore,  "  lo,  this  is  not  your  rest," 
Why  build  ye  towers,  ye  fleeting  ones  ?  why  bowers  of  fragrance 

rear! 
As  if  the  self-deceiving  soul  might  find  its  Eden  here. 


MfiS.    SIGOUENEV'S    POEMS.  157 

In  vain !  In  vain  !  wild  storms  will  rise  and  o'er  your  fabrics, 

sweep, 
Yet  when  loud  thunders  wake  the  wave,  and  deep  replies  to  deep, 
When  in  your  path,  Hope's  broken  prism,  doth  shed  its  parting 

ray, 
Spring-  up  and  fix  your  tearful  eye  on  undeclining  day. 

If  like  an  ice-bolt  to  the  heart,  frail  Friendship's  altered  eye 
Admits  these  rosy  wreaths  are  dead,  it  promis'd  could  not  die, 
Lift,  lift  to  an  Eternal  Friend,  the  agonizing  prayer, 
The  souls  that  put  their  trust  in  Him,  shall  never  know  despair. 

If  Fancy,  she  who  bids  young  Thought,  its  freshest  incense  bring, 
By  stern  reality  rebuk'd,  should  fold  her  stricken  wing, 
There  is  a  brighter,  broader  realm  than  she  hath  yet  reveal'd, 
From  flesh-girt  man's  exploring  eye,  and  anxious  ear  conceal'd. 

Earth  is  Death's  palace :  to  his  court  he  summons  great  and  small, 
The  crown' d,  the  homeless  and  the  slave,  are  but  his  minions  all ; 
We  turn  us  shrinking  from  the  truth,  the  close  pursuit  we  fly, 
But  faultering  on  the  grave's  dark  brink,  do  lay  us  down  and  die. 


ON  THE  UNION  OF  LADIES  OF  GREAT  BRITAIN, 
WITH  THOSE  OF  AMERICA,  IN  PLANS  OF  BENE- 
VOLENCE FOR  AFRICA. 

It  is  not  least  of  all  thy  praise, 

Fair  Isle  !  so  long  renown'd  in  story, 
Nor  faintest  'mid  the  gather'd  rays 
That  form  thy  coronet  of  glory, 
14 


158  MBS.   SIGOUBNEY's  POEMS. 

That  clasping  thus  a  daughter's  hand, 
Her  earnest  guidance  fondly  heeding, 

Thou  turn'stthee  toward  that  trampled  land 
'Neath  many  a  poison'd  arrow  bleeding. 

And  wherefore  turn'st  thou  1 — To  restore 

The  ancient  boast  of  Nile's  dark  biilow 
Which  cradled  Science  calmly  bore 

Like  Moses  on  his  reed-twin'd  pillow  ? 
To  bid  stern  Cheop's  mountain-height 

Aspire,  while  vassal  realms  are  weeping  1 
Or  rouse  again  the  buried  might 

Of  Carthage,  'mid  her  ashes  sleeping  ? 

Ah  no. — To  dry  the  burning  tear, 

To  stifle  murderous  War's  commotion, 
To  bid  the  slave-ship  homeward  steer 

Unfreighted,  o'er  accusing  Ocean, 
To  plant  on  lone  Liberia's  height 

Undaunted  Freedom's  stainless  streamer, 
And  bear  to  those  who  grope  in  night 

Glad  tidings  of  a  blest  Redeemer. 

Go  on  thy  way,  thou  Queen  of  Isles  ! 

Sahara's  sands  shall  bloom  before  thee, 
And  Niger,  'mid  his  sinuous  wiles 

Waft  clouds  of  breathing  incense  o'er  thee, 
And  lo  !  this  young  and  ardent  West 

Rehearsing  grateful  Afric's  story, 
Shall  grave  upon  her  filial  breast, 

Proud  record  of  a  Mother's  glory. 


MRS.   SIGOUENEY'S    P0EM3.  159 

UZZIAH. 

II.  Chronicles,  Chap.  26. 

The  star  of  Judah's  king  rode  high  in  plenitude  of  power, 
And  lauded  was  his  sceptre's  sway,  in  palace  and  in  bower, 
Fresh  fountains  in  the  desert  waste,  up  at  his  bidding  sprung, 
And  clustering  vines  o'er  Carmel's  breast,  a  broader  mantle  flung, 
He  hied  him  to  the  battle-field,  in  all  his  young  renown, 
And  wild  Arabia's  swarthy  host,  like  blighted  grass  fell  down. 

Yet  when  within  his  lifted  heart,  the  seeds  of  pride  grew  strong 
And  unacknowledg'd  blessings  led  to  arrogance  and  wrong, 
Even  to  the  temple's  holy  place,  with  impious  step  he  hied, 
And  with  a  kindling  censer  stood  fast  by  the  altar's  side  ; 
But  he  whose  high  and  priestly  brow,  the  anointing  oil  had  blest, 
Stood  forth  majestic  to  rebuke  the  sacrilegious  guest. 

"  'Tis  not  for  thee,"  he  sternly  said,  "to  tread  this  hallow'd  nave, 
And  take  that  honor  to  thyself,  which  God  to  Aaron  gave, 
'Tis  not  for  thee,  thou  mighty  king,  o'er  Judah's  realm  ordain'd, 
To  trample  on  Jehovah's  law,  by  whom  thy  fathers  reign'd, 
Go  hence  !"     And  from  his  awful  eye,  there  seem'd  such  ire  to 

flame, 
As  mingled  with  the  thunder-blast,  when  God  to  Sinai  came. 

Then  loud  the  reckless  monarch  storm'd,  and  with  a  daring  hand, 
He  swung  the  sacred  censer  high  above  the  trembling  band, 
But  where  the  burning  sign  of  wrath  did  in  his  forehead  flame, 
Behold !  the  avenging  doom  of  heaven,  the  livid  plague-spot  came : 
And  low  his  princely  head  declin'd,  in  bitterness  of  woe, 
While  from  the  temple-gate  he  sped, — a  leper  white  as  snow. 


]60  MKS-  sigourney's  poems. 


"  Then  whose  shall  those  things  be  that  thou  hast  provided  T 

Luke  xii,  20, 
Thou  hast  a  fair  domain, 

Most  proud  and  princely  halls, 
And  richly  thro'  the  crystal  pane, 
Thro'  bowering  branches  fresh  with  rain, 

The  golden  sunbeam  falls, 
Thick  vine-leaves  o'er  thy  grotto  meet 

In  soft  and  fragrant  gloom, 
But  who  shall  fill  that  favorite  seat 

When  thou  art  in  thy  tomb  1 

The  wealth  of  every  age 

Thou  hast  center'd  here, 
Tho  ancient  tome,  the  classic  page, 
The  wit,  the  poet,  and  the  sage, 

All  at  thy  nod  appear  ; 
But  studious  head  and  anxious  breast 

To  palsied  Death  must  yield  ; 
Whose  eye  shall  on  those  volumes  rest 

When  thine  in  dust  is  seal'd  1 

Thou  lov'st  the  burnish'd  gold, 

The  silver  from  the  mine, 
The  diamond  glittering  bright  and  cold, 
And  hoards,  perchance,  of  gems  untold, 

Do  in  thy  coffers  shine  ; 
But  when  affection's  eye  shall  weep 

Its  few,  brief  tears  for  thee, 
When  thou  in  thy  dark  grave  dost  sleep 

Whose  shall  these  treasures  be  \ 


MRS.    SIGOTONEY's   POEMS.  161 

Thy  children's  ?     Bid  some  few  short  years 

Fulfill  their  hasting-  claims, 
Where  are  they  ?     Ask  the  mourner's  tears* 
A  stranger  in  their  place  appears, 

Forgotten  are  their  names, 
Their  memory  like  the  snow  shall  melt 

From  the  green  hillock's  head, 
And  where  they  once  in  plenty  dwelt, 

Their  offspring  ask  for  bread. 

But  if  thy  love  to  God  sincere 

By  love  to  Man  be  shown, 
By  pity's  deed,  contrition's  tear, 
Faith  in  a  Saviour's  merits  dear, 

Distrustful  of  thine  own  ; 
If  thou  hast  in  thy  casket  laid 

Such  treasures  rich  and  free, 
Beyond  dread  Death's  oblivious  shade, 

Look  !  they  shall  go  with  thee. 


"REDEEMING  THE  TIME." 

Why  break  the  limits  of  permitted  thought 
To  revel  in  Elysium  1  thou  who  bear'st 
Still  the  stern  yoke  of  this  unresting  life, 
Its  toils,  its  hazards,  and  its  fears  of  change ! 
Why  hang  thy  frost-work  wreath  on  Fancy's  brow, 
When  labor  warns  thee  to  thy  daily  task, 
And  Faith  doth  bid  thee  gird  thyself  to  run 
14* 


162  MRS-  sigocbney's  poems. 

Thy  thorny  journey  to  the  gate  of  Heaven  1 
Up,  'tis  no  dreaming-time  !  awake  !  awake  ! 
For  He  who  sits  on  the  high  Judge's  seat, 
Doth  in  his  record  note  each  wasted  hour, 
Each  idle  word.     Take  heed,  thy  shrinking  soul 
Find  not  their  weight  too  heavy,  when  it  stands 
At  that  dread  bar,  from  whence  is  no  appeal. 
Lo,  while  ye  trifle,  the  light  sand  steals  on 
Leaving  the  hour-glass  empty,  and  thy  life 
Glideth  away, — stamp  wisdom  on  its  hours, 


THE   GRAVE. 

Who  in  a  faithful  breast  our  frailties  hides 
Breathing  them  not  to  the  invidious  ear, 
But  with  oblivion's  mantle  covering  all  ? 
Friendship  ? 

Alas  !  Her  most  immaculate  shrine 
Hath  sometimes  yielded  to  the  traitor's  key, 
And  she  with  Luna's  ever-varying  phase 
Reveal'd  her  own  infirmity.     The  Grave, 
The  voiceless  Grave  shall  be  to  thee  a  friend 
Who  breaks  no  promise  and  no  trust  betrays. 
— What  hand  our  virtues  decks  with  fadeless  bloom, 
Throwing  fresh  fragrance  o'er  their  timid  buds? 
Memory  ? 

— Ah,  no  ! — She,  like  a  reaper  blind, 
Or  impotent  with  age,  oft  gathereth  tares 
Into  her  garner,  and  doth  leave  the  wheat 


MRS.    SIGOUENEY'S   POEMS.  163 

To  moulder  all  unbound.     The  Grave  alone 

Shall  do  this  office  for  us.     Why,  O  Grave ! 

Giver  of  rest  to  Earth's  o'erladen  ones, 

Whose  love  doth  shame  our  friendship,  and  whose  care 

Treasureth  what  Memory  scatters, — why  with  haste 

Of  bitter  loathing,  turn  we  from  thine  arms  1 


ON  THE  CELEBRATION  OF  WASHINGTON'S  BIRTH 
DAY  AT  ROME,  BY  AMERICANS.— Feb.  22,  1829. 

There  is  a  festive  strain  within  the  walls 

Of  the  Eternal  City,  and  high  praise 

Unto  the  glorious  dead.     Beauty  doth  twine 

Her  votive  wreath,  and  Eloquence  and  Song 

In  eulogy  burst  forth.     To  whom,  O  Rome, 

Mid  all  thy  heroes,  all  thy  demi-gods, 

Thy  purple-rob'd  and  mitred  ones,  to  whom 

Riseth  this  homage  1     But  she  wav'd  her  hand 

And  pointed  me  in  silence  as  of  scorn 

Unto  a  stranger-band.     Yes,  there  they  stood, 

The  children  of  that  Western  Clime  which  slept 

In  embryo  darkness,  when  tiara'd  Rome 

In  all  the  peevish  plenitude  of  power 

Call'd  Earth  her  footstool.     There  they  stood  serene, 

True  sons  of  that  fair  realm  which  needeth  not 

The  faded  pomp  of  royal  pageantry 

To  trick  her  banner.     Wheresoe'er  they  roam 

Whether  'mid  Andes'  canopy  of  cloud, 

Or  the  sunk  cells  of  groping  Labrador, 


164  MRS-  sigoueney's  poems. 

Or  the  broad  seas,  or  the  bright  tropic-isles 
Where  Nature  in  her  noon-day  faintness  holds 
A  long  siesta,  still  their  hearts  enshrine 
Liberty  as  a  God.     There,  'neath  the  shade 
Of  the  Collisseum  vaulting  up  to  Heaven, 
The  time-spar'd  arch,  the  mighty  Basilic, 
Palace,  and  pantheon,  and  monument, 
Where  throng  a  wondering  world  in  pilgrimage, 
They  bow  no  knee  to  Cesar,  but  compel 
The  kingly  Tiber  to  pronounce  the  name 
Of  their  own  Washington.     Sublime  they  pour 
Warm  Memory's  incense  to  their  Country's  Sire 
He,  who  in  pliant  infancy  was  train'd 
By  Spartan  nurture  first  to  rule  himself > 
And  then  a  young,  embattled  host  to  lead 
Through  toil  and  terror,  to  a  glorious  seat 
Among  the  nations.     Then  when  every  eye 
Of  every  clime  was  bent  on  him  with  awe 
Like  adoration,  from  his  breast  he  rent 
The  adhesive  panoply  of  power,  retir'd 
From  the  loud  peans  of  a  world,  to  sleep 
Uncrovvn'd,  uncoronetted,  'mid  the  soil 
His  hands  had  till'd.     Henceforth  let  none  decry 
The  majesty  of  virtue,  since  she  stands 
Simply  on  the  high  places  of  the  earth, 
Her  open  forehead  to  the  scanning  stars, 
And  the  pure-hearted  worship  her,  while  Pride 
And  tyrant  power  and  laurell'd  Victory 
Do  give  their  sculptur'd  trophies  to  the  owl, 
And  noisome  bat,  and  to  the  shades  pass  on 
With  such  memorial  as  ne'er  wrung  a  tear. 


MRS.    SIGOUBNEY'S   POEMS.  165 


O,  come  !  let  us  walk  in  the  light  of  the  Lord."— Isaiah  ii.  5. 

Hope  sheds  on  man's  first  waking  hours 

A  lustre  pure  and  fair, 
And  as  his  mind  unfolds  its  powers 

Her  cheering  smile  is  there  : 
But  when  his  feet  life's  pathway  tread 

And  his  torn  bosom  bleeds, 
And  darkening  ills  around  him  spread 

Her  taper's  ray  recedes. 

A  brighter  torch  doth  Pleasure  boast 

To  lure  his  youthful  way, 
A  meteor  on  a  rocky  coast 

That  dazzles  to  betray. 
But  woe  if  his  confiding  heart 

Be  with  her  fetters  bound, 
The  syren  hath  a  poison'd  dart 

And  loves  a  secret  wound. 

God  hath  a  light.     It  beams  sublime 

On  every  seeking  eye, 
When  withering  'neath  the  blasts  of  time 

Both  hope  and  pleasure  die  : 
That  light  we'll  seek.     Its  ray  hath  power 

To  pierce  the  shrouded  tomb, 
And  guide  where  tempests  never  lower 

And  sorrow  dares  not  come. 


166  Mas«  sigourney's  poems. 


THE   DAUGHTER. 

Wheels  o'er  the  pavements  roll'd,  and  a  light  form 

Just  in  the  bud  of  blushing  womanhood 

Press'd  the  paternal  threshhold.     Wrathful  Night 

Muffled  the  timid  stars,  and  rain-drops  hung 

On  that  fair  creature's  rich  and  glossy  curls. 

She  stood,  and  shiver'd,  but  no  mother's  hand 

Dried  those  damp  tresses,  and  with  warm  caress 

Sustain'd  the  weary  spirit.     No,  that  hand 

Was  with  the  cold,  dull  earth-worm. 

— Grey  and  sad, 
The  tottering  nurse  rose  up,  and  that  old  man, 
The  soldier-servant  who  had  train'd  the  steeds 
Of  ner  slain  brothers,  tor  the  battle  field, 
Essay 'd  to  lead  her  to  the  couch  of  pain, 
Where  her  sick  father  pined.     Oft  had  he  yearn'd 
For  her  sweet  presence,  oft,  in  midnight's  watch, 
Mus'd  of  his  dear  one's  smile,  till  dreams  restor'd 
The  dove-like  dalliance  of  her  ruby  lip 
Breathing  his  woes  away.     But  distant  far, 
She,  patient  student,  bending  o'er  her  tasks, 
Toil'd  for  the  fruits  of  knowledge,  treasuring  still 
In  the  heart's  casket,  a  fond  father's  smile, 
And  the  pure  music  of  his  welcome-home, 
Rich  guerdon  of  her  labors. 

But  there  came 
A  summons  of  surprise,  and  on  the  wings 
Of  filial  love  she  hasted. 

— 'Twas  too  late  ! 
The  lamp  of  life  still  burn'd, — yet  Hwas  too  late. 


MRS.   SIGOURKEY'S    POEMS.  167 

The  mind  had  past  away,  and  who  could  call 
Its  wing  from  out  the  sky  1     For  the  embrace 
Of  strong  idolatry,  was  but  the  glare 
Of  a  fix'd,  vacant  eye.     Disease  had  dealt 
A  fell  assassin's  blow.     Oh  God  !  the  blight 
That  fell  on  those  fresh  hopes,  when  all  in  vain 
The  passive  hand  was  grasp'd,  while  the  wide  halls 
Echoed  to  "father  !  father .'" 

— Through  the  shades 
Of  that  long,  silent  night,  she  sleepless  bent, 
Bathing  with  tireless  hand  the  unmov'd  brow, 
And  the  death-pillow  smoothing.     When  fair  Mora 
Came  with  its  rose-tint  up,  she  shrieking  clasp'd 
Her  hands  in  joy,  for  its  reviving  ray 
Flush'd  that  wan  brow,  as  if  with  one  brief  trace 
Of  waking  intellect.     ' 'Twas  seeming  all, 
And  Hope's  fond  visions  faded,  while  the  day 
Rode  on  in  glory.     Eve  her  curtain  drew, 
And  found  that  pale  and  beautiful  watcher  there, 
Still  unreposing.     Restless  on  his  couch, 
Toss'd  the  sick  man.     Cold  Lethargy  had  steep'd 
The  last  wan  poppy  in  his  heart's  red  stream, 
And  Agony  was  stirring  Nature  up 
To  struggle  with  her  Spoiler. 

"  Oh  my  God  ! 
Would  he  could  sleep  !"   sigh'd  a  low,  silver  voice, 
And  then  she  ran  to  hush  the  measur'd  tick 
Of  the  dull  night-clock,  and  to  scare  the  owl 
Which  clinging  to  the  casement,  hoarsely  pour'd 
A  boding  note.     But  ah  !  from  that  lone  couch 
Thick-coming  groans  announc'd  the  foe  who  strikes 
But  once.     They  bare  the  fainting  child  away, 


168  MRS.    SIGOURNEV's    POEMS. 

And  paler  than  that  ashen  corse,  her  face, 
Half  by  a  flood  of  ebon  tresses  hid, 
Droop'd  o'er  the  old  nurse's  shoulder.     It  was  sad, 
To  see  a  young  heart  bursting,  while  the  old 
Sank  to  its  rest. 

There  came  another  change  ; 
The  mournful  bell  toll'd  out  the  funeral  hour, 
And  many  a  foot  throng'd  where  the  sable  hearse 
Tarried.     Friendship  was  there,  with  heavy  heart, 
Keen  Curiosity  intent  to  scan 
The  lofty  mansion, — and  gaunt  Worldliness 
Even  o'er  the  coffin  and  the  warning  shroud, 
Revolving  his  vile  schemes. 

And  one  was  there 
To  whom  this  earth  could  render  nothing  back 
Like  that  pale  piece  of  clay.     Calmly  she  stood, 
As  marble  statue.     The  old  house  dog  came, 
Pressing  his  rough  head  to  her  snowy  palm, 
All  unreprov'd.     He  for  his  master  mourn'd, 
And  could  she  spurn  that  faithful  friend,  who  oft 
His  shaggy  length  through  many  a  fire-side  hour 
Stretch'd  at  her  father's  feet,  and  round  his  bed 
Of  death  had  watch'd,  with  wondering,  wishful  eye, 
In  fear  and  sympathy  1     No  !  on  his  neck 
Her  orphan  tear  had  fallen,  and  by  her  side 
His  noble  front  he  rear'd,  as  proud  to  guard 
The  last  lov'd  relic  of  his  master's  house. 
There  was  a  calmness  on  that  mourner's  brow, 
111  understood  by  many  a  lawless  glance 
Of  whispering  gossip.     Of  her  sire  they  spake, 
Who  suffered  scarce  the  breath  of  heaven  to  stir 
The  tresses  of  his  darling,  and  who  deemed 


MBS.    EIGOURNEY's   POEMS.  169 

In  the  deep  passion  of  his  heart's  sole  love, 

She  was  a  mate  for  angels.     Then  they  gaz'd 

Upon  her  tearless  cheek,  and  murmuring  said 

"  How  strange  that  he  should  be  so  slightly  mourn' dV 

— Oh  woman,  oft  misconstrued  !  the  pure  pearls 

Lie  all  too  deep  in  thy  heart's  secret  well, 

For  the  unpausing  and  impatient  hand 

To  win  them  forth.     In  that  meek  maiden's  breast 

Sorrow  and  loneliness  sank  darkly  down, 

While  the  blanch'd  lip  breath'd  out  no  boisterous  plaint 

Of  common  grief. 

Even  on  to  life's  decline, 
Amid  the  giddy  round  of  prosperous  years, 
The  birth  of  new  affections,  and  the  joys 
That  cluster  round  earth's  favorites,  there  walk'd 
Still  at  her  side,  the  image  of  her  Sire, 
As  in  that  hour  when  his  cold,  glazing  eye 
Met  hers,  and  knew  her  not. — When  her  full  cup 
Perchance  had  foam'd  with  pride,  that  icy  glance 
Checking  its  effervescence,  taught  her  soul 
The  chasten'd  wisdom  of  attemperd  bliss. 


THE  FIRST  MORNING  OF  SPRING. 

Break  from  your  chains,  ye  lingering  streams, 
Rise,  blossoms  from  your  wintry  dreams, 
Drear  fields,  your  robes  of  verdure  take, 
Birds,  from  your  trance  of  silence  wake, 
Glad  trees  resume  your  leafy  crown, 
Shrubs,  o'er  the  mirror-brooks  bend  down, 
15 


170  MES-  sigourney's  poems. 

Bland  zephyrs,  wheresoe'er  ye  stray, 
The  Spring  doth  call  you, — come  away. 
— Thou  too,  my  soul,  with  quicken'd  force 
Pursue  thy  brief,  thy  measur'd  course, 
With  grateful  zeal  each  power  employ, 
Catch  vigor  from  Creation's  joy, 
And  deeply  on  thy  shortening  span, 
Stamp  love  to  God,  and  love  to  man. 
— But  Spring  with  tardy  step  appears, 
Chill  is  her  eye,  and  dim  with  tears, 
Still  are  the  founts  in  fetters  bound, 
The  flower-germs  shrink  within  the  ground, 
Where  are  the  warblers  of  the  sky  ] 
I  ask, — and  angry  blasts  reply. 
— It  is  not  thus  in  heavenly  bowers, 
Nor  ice-bound  rill,  nor  drooping  flowers, 
Nor  silent  harp,  nor  folded  wing 
Invade  that  everlasting  Spring, 
Toward  which  we  look  with  wishful  tear 
While  pilgrims  in  this  wintry  sphere. 


THE   SOAP  BUBBLE. 

Bright  Globe  !  upon  the  sun-beam  tost, 
Pure,  sparkling,  then  for  ever  lost, 
No  crested  wave  that  glittering  breaks, 
Nor  pearl  that  Wealth  admiring  takes, 
Nor  diamond  from  Golconda's  coast 
Can  half  thy  changeful  brilliance  boast. 
— Hast  thou  a  voice,  to  bid  us  see 
An  emblem  of  our  infancy, 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS.  171 

Our  reckless  youth,  our  manhood's  strife, 

And  all  the  painted  gaudes  of  life  1 

— Hope  spreads  her  wing-  of  plumage  fair, 

Rebuilds  her  castle  bas'd  on  air, 

Its  turrets  crown'd  with  frost-work  bright, 

Its  portals  filled  with  rosy  light, 

A  breath  of  Summer  stirs  the  tree, 

Where  is  that  gorgeous  dome'? — with  thee. 

— Behold  !  array 'd  in  robes  of  light 

Young  Beauty  charms  the  gazer's  sight, 

Fast  in  her  steps  the  graces  tread, 

The  roseate  chaplet  decks  her  head, 

But  the  brief  garland  fades  away, 

The  bubble  bursts, — and  she  is  clay. 

— Dilate  once  more  thy  proudest  size, 

And  deck  thee  in  the  rainbow's  dyes, 

Thy  boldest  flight  aspiring  dare, 

Then  vanish  to  thy  native  air  ; 

Love  dazzles  thus  with  borrow'd  rays, 

And  thus  the  trusting  heart  betrays. 

— Again  it  swells,  that  chrystal  round, 

Soars,  shines,  expands,  and  seeks  the  ground, 

Save,  save  that  frail  and  tinted  shell ! 

Where  fled  its  fragments  1  who  can  tell  1 

Thus,  when  the  soul  from  dust  is  free, 

Thus  shall  it  gaze,  oh  Earth  !  on  thee. 


172  MRS-  sigourney's  poems. 


I  have  no  greater  joy  than  to  see  my  children  walk  in  the  truth 

fit     T^K™ 


St.  John. 


On  meeting  several  former  pupils  at  the  Communion  Table. 

When  kneeling-  round  a  Saviour's  board 
Fair  forms,  and  brows  belov'd,  I  see, 

Who  once  the  paths  of  peace  explor'd 
And  trac'd  the  studious  page  with  me, — 

Who  from  my  side  with  pain  would  part, 
My  entering  step  with  gladness  greet, 

And  pour  complacent,  o'er  my  heart 
Affection's  dew-drops,  pure  and  sweet. 

When  now,  from  each  remember'd  face 
Beam  tranquil  hope  and  faith  benign, 

When  in  each  eye  Heaven's  smile  I  trace, 
The  tear  of  joy  suffuses  mine. 

Father  !  1  bless  thy  ceaseless  care, 
Which  thus  its  holiest  gifts  hath  shed, 

Guide  thou  their  steps  through  every  snare 
From  every  danger  shield  their  head. 

From  treacherous  error's  dire  control, 
From  pride,  from  chang-e,  from  darkness  free, 

Preserve  each  timorous,  trusting-  soul, 
That  like  the  ark-dove  flies  to  thee. 

And  may  the  wreath  that  cloudless  days 
Around  our  hearts  so  fondly  wove, 

Still  bind  us  till  we  speak  thy  praise, 
As  sister  spirits,  one  in  love, — 


MRS.  SIGOURNEy's   POEMS.  173 


One,  where  no  lingering-  ill  can  harm, 
One,  where  no  stroke  of  fate  can  sever, 

Where  nought  but  holiness  doth  charm, 
And  all  that  charms  shall  live  forever. 


"TO   DIE  IS  GAIN." 

Say'st  thou,  'tis  gain  to  die  1     And  may  I  ask 
How  thou  hast  weigh'd,  and  by  what  process  brought 
The  Apostle's  answer  to  thy  sum  of  life? 
Where  are  thy  balances,  and  whose  firm  hand 
Did  poise  therein  thy  talents  and  their  use 
To  show  such  blest  result  1     Time's  capital 
Needs  well  be  husbanded,  to  leave  the  amount 
Of  gain  behind,  when  at  a  moment's  call 
Trie  spirit  fleets,  and  the  dissolving  flesh 
Yields  to  the  earth-worm's  fang. 

Say,  hath  thy  lip 
Too  often  satiate,  loath'd  the  mingled  cup 
So  madly  fill'd  at  Pleasure's  turbid  stream  ] 
Or  hath  thine  ear,  the  promises  of  hope 
Drank  on  in  giddy  sickness,  till  the  touch 
Of  grave  philosophy,  their  emptiness 
Detected,  and  to  their  thin  element 
Of  air,  reduc'd  1     Or  doth  thy  cheated  heart 
Sowing  its  warm  affections  on  the  wind 
And  reaping  but  the  whirlwind,  turn  with  scorn 
From  every  harvest  which  these  changeful  skies 
Can  ripen  or  destroy  ]     Then  hast  thou  prov'd 
15* 


174  MRS.    SIGOURNEy's    POEMS. 

The  loss  of  life,  but  not  the  gain  of  death. 

But  hast  thou  by  thy  ceaseless  prayers  obtained 

Such  token  of  acceptance  with  thy  Lord, 

So  fill'd  each  post  of  duty,  so  sustain'd 

All  needful  discipline,  so  deeply  mourn'd 

Each  burden  of  iniquity,  that  Death 

Comes  as  a  favor'd  messenger  to  lead 

To  its  bright  heritage,  the  willing  soul  1 

— Searcher  of  hearts,  thou  knowest !     Thou  alone 

The  hidden  thought  dost  read,  the  daily  act 

Note  unforgetful.     Take  away  the  dross 

Of  earthly  principle,  the  gather'd  film 

Of  self-deluding  hope,  the  love  and  hate 

Which  have  their  root  in  dust,  until  the  soul 

Regarding  life  and  death  with  equal  eye 

Absorbs  its  will  in  thine. 


THE    REV.    LEGH     RICHMOND,    AMONG    THE 
RUINS   OF  IONA. 

Where  old  Iona's  ruins  spread 

In  shapeless  fragments  round, 
And  where  the  crown'd  and  mighty  dead 

Repose  in  cells  profound, 
Where  o'er  Columba's  buried  towers 

The  shrouding  ivy  steals, 
And  moans  the  owl  from  cloister'd  bowers 

A  holy  Teacher  kneels. 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS.  175 

Rocks  spring  terrific  to  the  sky, 

Rude  seas  in  madness  storm, 
And  grimly  frowns  on  Fancy's  eye 

The  Druid's  awful  form, 
With  mutter' d  curse  and  reeking  blade, 

And  visage  stern  with  ire, 
Yet  'mid  that  darkly  blended  shade 

Still  bends  the  stranger  sire. 

He  prays, — the  father  for  his  child, 

The  distant  and  the  dear, 
And  when  yon  abbey  o'er  the  wild 

Upraised  its  arches  drear, 
When  at  high  mass,  or  vesper-strain 

Rich  voices  fill'd  the  air, 
From  all  that  cowl'd  and  mitred  train 

Rose  there  a  purer  prayer  1 

His  name  is  on  a  simple  scroll 

With  holy  ardor  penn'd, 
Which  thrilling  warns  the  sinner's  soul 

To  make  his  God  a  friend, 
But  when  the  strong  archangel's  breath 

Yon  ancient  vaults  shall  rend, 
And  starting  from  the  dust  of  death 

These  waken'd  throngs  ascend. 

Meek  saint  !  The  boldest  of  the  bold 

That  sword  or  falchion  drew, 
Barons  whose  feudal  glance  control'd 

Vassal  and  monarch  too. 


176  MHS-  sigourney's  poems. 

Proud  heroes  of  the  tented  field, 

Kings  of  a  vaunted  line, 
May  wish  their  blood-bought  fame  to  yield 

For  honors  won  like  thine. 


PEACE. 

History  hath  set  her  crown 

Upon  the  Conqueror's  head, 
And  bade  the  awe-struck  world  bow  down 

Before  his  banner'd  tread. 
So  down  the  world  hath  bow'd 

Upon  her  letter'd  page, 
And  the  wild  homage  of  the  crowd 

Swell'd  on  from  age  to  age. 

What  miseries  mark'd  his  way, 

How  oft  the  orphan  wept, 
How  deep  the  earth  in  sackcloth  lay 

No  trace  her  annal  kept. 
Though  like  a  torrent's  flow 

The  widow's  tear  gush'd  out, 
The  current  of  that  secret  woe 

Quell'd  not  the  victor's  shout. 

The  Gospel's  sacred  scroll 

A  different  standard  shows, 
Its  plaudit  on  the  humble  soul 

And  contrite,  it  bestows. 


MRS.    SIGOUBNEY'S   POEMS.  177 

To  men  of  holy  life 

Its  glorious  crown  is  given, 
Who  nurse  amid  this  vale  of  strife, 

The  peaceful  germs  of  Heaven. 


LAZARUS. 

The  grave,  that  never  loos'd  its  hold, 

But  on  its  prey  insatiate  fed, 
Restores  a  victim,  pale  and  cold, 

He  cometh  forth,  the  sheeted  dead. 
Ah  !  wherefore  com'st  thou  1  safely  past 

The  gate  of  agony  and  pain, 
That  pang  endured,  the  worst,  the  last, 

Why  dar'st  thou  thus  that  strife  again 


Com'st  thou  to  share  the  traitor-kiss, 

That  Earth  bestows  at  Wisdom's  cost  ? 
Com'st  thou  to  gather  pearls  of  bliss, 

And  find  them  broken,  strew'd,  and  lost  1 
True,  Bethany's  green  vales  are  bright, 

Thy  sister's  home  is  sad  for  thee, 
But  Paradise  hath  purer  light, 

And  love  without  infirmity. 

Methought  he  spake,  that  fearful  form, 

The  sleeper,  'neath  the  burial  sod, 
The  accepted  brother  of  the  worm, 
4i  Behold  my  Saviour,  and  my  God  ! " 


178  MES-  sigourney's  poems. 

And  if  in  Time's  remoter  hour 
Cold  doubt  should  rise,  from  error  bred, 

Through  me  proclaim  His  godlike  power 
Who  rul'd  the  tomb  and  rais'd  the  dead. 


"THERE   GO   THE   SHIPS." 

White-rob'd  wanderers  of  the  deep, 

Whither  speeds  your  trackless  way  ? 
Toward  some  islet's  rocky  steep, 

Crowded  mart,  or  swelling  bay  1 
Polar  ice,  or  tropic  clime'? 

Zone  where  lingering  mystery  slept  1 
Region  whence  oblivious  time 

Hath  the  mouldering  empire  swept  1 

Bear'st  thou  in  thy  wind-tost  car 

Wealth  to  purchase  wealth  again  1 
Or  the  elements  of  war 

Thundering  o'er  the  hostile  main  1 
Hid'st  thou  in  thy  hollow  breast 

Hearts  in  manly  vigor  warm  ? 
Courage  with  his  dauntless  crest  1 

Venturous  Beauty's  fragile  form  1 

Heed'st  thou  on  thy  stately  course 
All  the  dangers  of  the  wave  ? 

Stretching  reefs,  or  breakers  hoarse, 
Wrecks  that  strew  the  watery  grave  1 


MRS.  sigourney's  poems.  179 

Chambers  where  the  mighty  sleep 

Powerless  as  the  infant  dead, 
While  the  unfathomable  deep 

O'er  them  draws  its  curtain  dread. 

Gleaming  pearls  their  pillow  light, 

Coral  boss'd  with  ruby  gem, 
Builds  their  mausoleum  bright  ; 

What  is  Ocean's  wealth  to  them  ! 
Shouldst  thou  when  the  tempest's  wrath 

Mingles  cloud  and  surging  sea, 
Plunge  that  same  sepulchral  path 

What  were  all  Earth's  gold  to  thee  ? 

Prayer's  soft  breath  thy  sails  can  fill, 

Guide  thee  prosperous  on  thy  way, 
Though,  perchance,  the  pilot's  skill 

Yield  to  peril  and  dismay, 
Though  the  needle's  baffled  care 

Point  not  to  its  destin'd  pole, 
Still  the  God  who  heareth  prayer 

Rules  the  Sea,  and  saves  the  soul. 


"  And  David  said,  Let  me  now  fall  into  the  hand  of  the  Lord,  foi 
his'mercies  are  great,— and  let  me  not  fall  into  the  hand  of  man." 

2  Sam.  xxiv,  14. 

Man  hath  a  voice  severe, 

His  neighbor's  fault  to  blame, 
A  wakeful  eye,  a  listening  ear 

To  note  his  brother's  shame. 


180  MRS.    SIGOURNEV'e    POEMS. 

He,  with  suspicious  glance 

The  curtain'd  breast  doth  read, 

And  raise  the  accusing  balance  high, 
To  weigh  the  doubtful  deed. 

Oh  Thou,  whose  piercing  thought 
Doth  note  each  secret  path, 

For  mercy  to  Thy  throne,  we  fly, 
From  man's  condemning  wrath. 

Thou,  who  dost  dimness  mark 
In  Heaven's  resplendent  way, 

And  folly  in  that  angel  host 
Who  serve  thee  night  and  day. 

How  fearless  should  our  trust 

In  thy  compassion  be, 
When  from  our  brother  of  the  dust 

We  dare  appeal  to  Thee. 


FILIAL  CLAIMS. 

Who  bendeth  with  meek  eye,  and  bloodless  cheek 
Thus  o'er  the  new-born  babe  1  content  to  take 
As  payment  for  all  agony  and  pain, 
Its  first  soft  kiss,  its  first  breath  on  her  brow, 
The  first  faint  pressure  of  its  tiny  hand  1 
It  is  not  needful  that  I  speak  the  name 
Of  that  one  being  on  this  earth,  whose  love 
Doth  never  falter. 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS.  191 

Answer  me,  young  man, 
Thou,  who  thro'  chance  and  change  of  time  hast  trod 
Thus  far,  when  some  with  vengeful  wrath  have  mark'd 
Thy  waywardness,  or  in  thy  time  of  woe 
Deserted  thee,  or  with  a  rainbow  smile 
Lur'd  and  forsook,  or  on  thine  errors  scowl'd 
With  unforgiving  memory, — did  she  ? 
Thy  Mother  ? 

Child  !  in  whose  rejoicing  heart 
The  cradle-scene  is  fresh,  the  lulling  hymn 
Still  clearly  echoed,  when  the  blight  of  age 
Withereth  that  bosom,  where  thine  head  doth  lay, 
When  pain  shall  paralyze  the  arm  that  clasps 
Thy  form  so  tenderly,  wilt  thou  forget  1 
Wilt  thou  be  weary,  tho'  long  years  should  ask 
The  patient  offices  of  love  to  gird 
A  broken  mind  1 

Turn  back  the  book  of  life 
To  its  first  page.     What  deep  trace  meets  thee  there  ? 
Lines  from  a  Mother's  pencil.     When  her  scroll 
Of  life  is  finish'd  and  the  hand  of  Death 
Stamps  that  strong  seal,  which  none  but  God  can  break, 
What  should  its  last  trace  be  1 

Thy  bending  form 
In  sleepless  love,  the  dying  couch  beside, 
Thy  tender  hand  upon  the  closing  eye, 
Thy  kiss  upon  the  lips,  thy  prayer  to  Heaven, 
The  chasten'd  rendering  of  thy  filial  trust, 
Up  to  the  white-wing'd  angel  ministry. 
16 


182 


MBS.    SIGOUfiNEY's&  POEMS. 


SAILOR'S  HYMN. 

'Out  of  the  depths  have  1  cried  unto  thee,  O  Lord."-Psalm  cxxx. 

The  tempest  beat  against  my  bark, 

The  wrathful  Winds  were  high, 
And  threatening-  blasts,  like  couriers  brought 

Dark  tidings  from  the  sky  ; 

And  hoarsely  o'er  my  sinking  head 

Roli'd  on  the  thundering  sea, 
Then,  from  the  regions  of  the  dead, 

Oh  Lord  !  I  cried  to  thee. 

The  faithless  Sun,  behind  the  cloud 

Withdrew  his  guiding  light, 
And  every  star  its  lamp  withheld 

From  that  portentous  night. 

They  fled,  and  left  me  all  alone 

In  darkness,  and  in  fear, 
And  so  I  told  my  woes  to  God, 

And  He  vouchsafed  to  hear. 

Yes,  from  the  lowest  depths,  to  Him 

I  rais'd  a  fervent  cry, 
Why  should  a  helpless  worm  despair, 

When  such  a  friend  is  nigh  ? 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY'S   POEMS.  183 

SUNSET   ON  THE  ALLEGHANY. 

I  was  a  pensive  pilgrim  at  the  foot 
Of  the  crown'd  Alleghany,  when  he  wrapp'd 
His  purple  mantle  gloriously  around, 
And  took  the  homage  of  the  princely  hills, 
And  ancient  forests,  as  they  bow'd  them  down, 
Each  in  his  order  of  nobility. 
— And  then,  in  glorious  pomp,  the  sun  retir'd 
Behind  their  solemn  shadow.     And  his  train 
Of  crimson,  and  of  azure  and  of  gold 
Went  floating  up  the  zenith, — tint  on  tint, 
And  ray  on  ray, — till  all  the  concave  caught 
His  parting  benediction. 

But  the  glow 
Faded  to  twilight,  and  dim  twilight  sank 
In  deeper  shade,  and  there  that  mountain  stood 
In  awful  state,  like  dread  ambassador 
'Tween  earth  and  heaven.     Methought  it  frown'd  severe, 
Upon  the  world  beneath,  and  lifted  up 
The  accusing  forehead  sternly  toward  the  sky 
To  witness  'gainst  its  sins.     And  is  it  meet 
For  thee,  swell'd  out  in  cloud-cap'd  pinnacle 
To  scorn  thine  own  original,  the  dust 
That  feebly  eddying  on  the  angry  winds 
Doth  sweep  thy  base  1     Say,  is  it  meet  for  thee, 
Robing  thyself  in  mystery,  to  impeach 
This  nether  sphere,  from  whence  thy  rocky  root 
Draws  depth  and  nutriment  1 

But  lo  !  a  star 
The  first  meek  herald  of  advancing  nififht, 


184  MRS.   SIGOURNEY's  POEMS. 

Doth  peer  above  thy  summit,  as  some  babe 
Might  gaze  with  brow  of  timid  innocence 
Over  a  giant's  shoulder.     Hail,  lone  star  ! 
Thou  friendly  watcher  o'er  an  erring  world, 
Thine  uncondemning  glance  doth  aptly  teach 
Of  that  untiring  mercy,  which  vouchsafes 
Thee  light, — and  man  salvation. 

Not  to  mark 
And  treasure  up  his  follies,  or  recount 
Their  secret  record  in  the  court  of  Heaven, 
Thou  coms't.     Methinks,  thy  tenderness  would  shroud 
With  trembling  mantle,  his  infirmities. 
The  purest  natures  are  most  pitiful. 
But  they  who  feel  corruption  strong  within, 
Do  launch  their  darts  most  fiercely  at  the  trace 
Of  their  own  image,  in  another's  breast. 
— So  the  wild  bull,  that  in  some  mirror  spies 
His  own  mad  visage,  furiously  destroys 
The  frail  reflector.     But  thou,  stainless  Star  ! 
Shalt  stand  a  watchman  on  Creation's  walls, 
While  race  on  race  their  little  round  shall  mark, 
And  slumber  in  the  tomb.     Still  point  to  all, 
Who  thro'  this  evening  scene  may  wander  on, 
And  from  yon  mountain's  cold  magnificence 
Turn  to  thy  milder  beauty,  point  to  all, 
The  eternal  love  that  nightly  sends  thee  forth, 
A  silent  teacher  of  its  boundless  lore, 


MRS.    SIGOUBNEY'S   POEMS.  J  85 

DEATH   OF  A  FORMER  PUPIL. 

I  saw  her  toiling-  for  the  unclad  poor 
With  tireles  zeal,  and  bending  o'er  the  sick 
Through  the  long  watches  of  the  winter  night. 
Why  laid  she  thus  their  burdens  to  her  heart 
Forgetful  of  youth's  pleasures  ?     Did  some  voice 
Prophetic  warn  her  of  that  hasting  clime 
Where  are  no  sick  to  comfort,  and  no  poor 
To  need  a  garment  1     Felt  she  that  her  step 
Was  near  that  threshhold  where  the  weary  rest  1 
— We  may  not  say  what  light  was  in  her  soul, — 
For  that  Blest  Book  which  speaks  the  Eternal  Mind 
Was  her  close  counseller,  and  night  and  day 
She  woo'd  its  wisdom  with  a  childlike  love, 
'Till  the  wild  gladness  of  her  nature  took 
A  dreper  and  a  holier  tint,  like  one 
Who  girds  his  Sabbath-mantle  meekly  on, 
To  tread  God's  courts. 

Come  !  'tis  a  holy  hour, 
For  Easter-morn  is  purpling  the  far  hills, 
And  She,  our  Church,  a  weeping  pilgrim  long, 
Fast  by  the  footsteps  of  her  suffering  Lord, 
Up  to  his  cross,  and  downward  to  his  tomb, 
Doth  hail  his  rising'.     Lo  !  her  feast  is  spread, 
And  her  anointed  herald  hath  announc'd 
In  "  Christ's  behalf,"  the  invitation  blest — 
Come,  thou  art  bidden,  daughter.     'Twas  thy  prayer 
To  lift  thy  young  heart's  banner  up  this  day, 
Before  his  altar,  and  to  join  the  host 
Who  follow  him  to  death.     Behold,  they  kneel 
With  meek  obedience  to  their  Master's  voice, 
16* 


186  MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS. 

And  through  the  consecrated  emblems  seek 

Remission  of  their  sins.     Why  lingerest  thou  1 

— They  pointed  to  a  chamber  and  a  couch, 

Where  fever  with  its  red  and  quenchless  fires 

Wrought  in  Life's  citadel.     Yet  'mid  the  pain 

And  tossing  of  that  sleepless  agony 

When  every  nerve  was  quivering,  and  the  veins 

Shrank  from  the  lava-tide  that  thro'  them  flow'd 

There  rose  a  prayer  to  Jesus,  and  those  lips 

So  parch'd  and  pallid,  spake  the  words  of  Heaven. 

Death  drew  the  curtain,  and  she  slept  in  peace  : 

But  tears  are  flowing  'mid  the  pleasant  halls 

Where  her  affections  rested,  shedding  forth 

Fresh  brilliance,  like  some  never-setting  star. 

— Yes,  there  are  lingering  sighs  of  mournful  thought 

Where  Poverty  doth  trim  its  naked  hearth, 

And  frequent  lispings  of  her  name  from  babes 

Who  by  the  robes  that  shield  them  from  the  storm, 

And  by  the  holy  lessons  that  she  taught 

Upon  the  day  of  God,  remember  her. 

But  keener  grief  doth  dwell  in  one  lone  heart, 

Which  by  the  strongest  links  of  earthly  hope 

Had  bound  her  to  its  love,  so  that  each  scene 

Of  bright  futurity,  the  Pastor's  home, 

Altar  and  flock,  and  household  hymn  at  eve 

Came  coupled  with  her  image. 

— Of  such  woe 
Weak  language  speaketh  not.     But  ye  who  give 
Your  angel-welcome  to  each  happy  guest 
That  from  time's  tribulation  riseth  pure, 
Vouchsafe  some  echo  from  your  thrilling  harps, 
That  at  Heaven's  bliss,  these  woes  of  earth  may  fade. 


MRS.    SIGOUBNEY'S    POEMS.  187 


FAREWELL    OF  A  MISSIONARY  TO    AFRICA,    AT 
THE   GRAVE   OF   HIS    WIFE   AND  CHILD. 

Once  more,  neath  Autumn's  moaning  blast, 

I  6eek  thy  narrow  bed, 
And  is  this  gush  of  tears  the  last, 

I  o'er  this  turf  must  shed? 
Seasons  may  change,  and  years  depart, 

Yet  none  shall  here  recline 
To  twine  thy  memory  round  his  heart 

With  such  a  love  as  mine. 

Bound  to  a  dark  and  heathen  clime 

For  my  Redeemer's  sake, 
What  tides  of  sympathy  sublime 

At  thy  loved  image  wake. 
Thy  tender  care,  thy  fearless  trust, 

Thy  fond,  confiding  tone, — 
Yet  what  avails, — since  thou  art  dust, 

And  I  am  all  alone. 

There,  too,  sweet  infant,  slumbering  nigh, 

How  beautiful  wert  thou, 
Thy  mother's  spirit  in  thine  eye, 

Her  smile  upon  thy  brow, 
A  little  while,  thy  rose-bud  light 

On  my  lone  path  was  shed, 
A  little  while,  there  came  a  blight, 

And  thou  art  of  the  dead. 


188  MRS.   SIGOURNEY's    POEMS. 

I  go, — my  best  beloved, — farewell ! 

Borne  o'er  the  faithless  sea, 
When  the  wild  waves  like  mountains  swell, 

I  will  remember  thee  : 
Thy  meekness,  'mid  affliction's  strife, 

Thy  lifted  glance  of  prayer, 
Thy  firmness  'neath  the  storms  of  life 

Shall  be  my  pattern  there. 

And  when  on  Afric's  bleeding  breast, 

The  scorned  of  every  shore, 
The  chained,  thf.'  trampled,  the  opprest, 

Salvation's  balm  I  pour, 
Thy  zeal,  that  for  a  Saviour's  name 

Beamed  forth  with  cloudless  ray, 
Like  ancient  Israel's  pillared  flame 

Shall  cheer  my  pilgrim  way, 

If  toiling  'mid  that  sultry  glade 

The  Spoiler's  call  I  hear, 
Or  'neath  the  palm-tree's  murmuring  shade 

It  warns  my  willing  ear, 
Then  may  the  faith  that  fired  thine  eye, 

'Mid  pangs  untold  and  strong, 
My  dying  pillow  hover  nigh, 

And  wake  the  triumph-song. 


MBS.    SIGOUBNEY's   POEMS.  189 


EXPOSTULATION. 

To  man  reproving  Nature  said 

"  I  formed  thee  soft  and  mild, 
And  laid  thee  on  thy  cradle-bed 

A  tender,  tearful  child  ; 
Thy  feeble  wail,  thy  lisping  word, 
The  soul  of  kind  affection  stirred 

To  guard  thy  helpless  state  ; 
By  fragrant  flower  and  tuneful  grove, 
I  taught  my  dialect  of  Love, 

How  art  thou  turned  to  Hate" 

Meek  pity  spake. — "  I  lured  thy  heart 

From  every  cruel  deed, 
To  take  the  trampled  insect's  part, 

The  famished  sparrow  feed,^- 
How  dost  thou  scorn  my  plaintive  prayer  ! 
And  like  the  lion  from  his  lair 

The  savage  combat  wage  ! 
Thy  brother  of  the  clay  destroy, 
And  with  a  fierce,  demoniac  joy 

Seek  the  red  battle's  rage." 

Religion  came  with  dewy  eye, 

And  mournful  was  her  tone  ; 
"  I  taught  thee  of  that  glorious  sky 

Where  discord  is  unknown, 


190  MRS-    SIGOUHNEV'S   POEMS. 

I  bade  thee  sow  the  seeds  of  peace, 
And  share  those  joys  that  never  cease, 

Which  no  rude  sorrows  mar ; 
And  hast  thou  all  my  love  forgot, 
My  sacred  precepts  heeded  not, 

But  bartered  Heaven  for  war  ?" 


"I    WILL  ARISE  AND   GO   UNTO  MY  FATHER.5 

Wanderer,  amid  the  snarea 

Of  Time's  uncertain  way, 
Of  thousand  nameless  fears  the  sport, 

Of  countless  ills  the  prey  : 

A  stranger  'mid  the  land 

Where  thy  probation  lies, 
In  peril  from  each  adverse  blast 

And  e'en  from  prosperous  skies, 

In  peril  from  thy  friends, 

In  peril  from  thy  foes, 
In  peril  from  the  rebel  heart 

That  in  thy  bosom  glows  ; 

Hast  thou  no  Father's  house 

Beyond  this  pilgrim  scene, 
That  thou  on  Earth's  delusive  props 

With  bleeding  breast  doth  lean  ] 


MRS.    SIGOURNEy's    POEMS.  191 

Yet  not  a  Mother's  care 

Who  for  her  infant  sighs, 
When  absence  shuts  it  from  her  arms 

Or  sickness  dims  its  eye, 

Transcends  the  love  divine, 

The  welcome  full  and  free, 
With  which  the  glorious  King  of  Heaven 

Will  stretch  his  arms  to  thee, 

When  thou  with  contrite  tear 

Shall  wait  within  his  walls, 
Imploring  but  the  broken  bread 

That  from  his  table  falls. 

No  more  his  mansion  shun, 

No  more  distrust  his  grace, 
Turn  from  the  orphanage  of  earth 

And  find  a  Sire's  embrace. 


VOICE  FROM  THE  GRAVE  OF  A  SUNDAY-SCHOOL 
TEACHER. 

Yes,  this  is  holy  ground, 

Lay  me  to  slumber  here. 
The  cherish'd  thoughts  of  early  days, 

Have  made  this  spot  most  dear, — 
Fast  by  the  hallovv'd  church 

Where  first  I  learned  to  pray 
In  faith,  and  penitence  and  peace, — 

Make  ye  my  bed  of  clay. 


192  MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS. 

Though  life  hath  been  to  me 

A  scene  of  joy  and  love, 
And  sweet  affections  round  my  heart 

Unchanging  garlands  wove, 
Though  knowledge  in  its  power 

At  studious  midnight  came, 
Enkindling  in  my  raptur'd  mind, 

A  bright,  unwavering  flame  ; 

Yet  dearer  far  than  all, 

Was  Heaven's  celestial  lore  : 
Then  come,  belov'd  and  youthful  train, 

Who  hear  my  voice  no  more 
Come,  sing  the  hymn  I  taught, 

Here,  by  my  lowly  bed, 
And  with  your  Sabbath-lessons  blend 

Sweet  memory  of  the  dead. 


"He  gathereth  the  lambs  with  his  arm,  and  carneth  them  in  his 
bosom."— Isaiah. 

On  the  death  of  a  member  of  the  Infant  School. 

Lamb  !  in  a  clime  of  verdure, 

Thy  favored  lot  was  cast, 
No  serpent  'mid  thy  flow'ry  food, 

Upon  thy  fold  no  blast, — 
Thine  were  the  chrystal  fountains, 

And  thine  a  cloudless  sky, 
Amid  thy  sports  a  star  of  love 

Thy  play-mate  brother's  eye. 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS.  193 

Approving-  guides  caress'd  thee, 

Where'er  thy  footsteps  rov'd  ; 
The  ear  that  heard  thee  bless'd  thee, 

The  eye  that  saw  thee  lov'd  ; 
Yet  life  hath  snares  and  sorrows 

From  which  no  friend  can  save, 
And  evils  might  have  thronged  thy  path, 

Which  thou  wert  weak  to  brave. 

There  is  a  Heavenly  Shepherd, 

And  ere  thy  infant  charms 
Had  caught  the  tinge  of  care  or  woe 

He  call'd  thee  to  his  arms, 
And  though  the  shadowy  valley, 

With  Death's  dark  frown  was  dim, 
Light  cheer'd  the  stormy  passage, 

And  thou  art  safe  with  Him. 


RELIGIOUS  TRACTS. 

They  descend  to  the  humblest  lot, 
They  are  found  in  the  proudest  dome, 

And  free  to  the  hearth  of  the  lowliest  cot, 
Like  the  beam  of  Heaven  they  come. 

When  the  way-side  beggar  wails 
They  are  with  him  in  his  care, 

To  tell  of  a  refuge  that  never  fails, 
Of  a  wealth  he  may  freely  share. 
17 


194  MRS-  sigourney's  poems. 

In  the  sailor's  chest  they  sleep, 
They  check  his  ribald  song, 

They  kindle  a  flame  in  his  musing  breast, 
'Mid  the  night  watch  cold  and  long. 

Like  the  light- wing'd  bird  they  rove 

Untir'd  from  zone  to  zone, 
With  links  of  love  they  enchain  the  world 

To  Mercy's  changeless  throne. 


EDUCATION   OF   PIOUS    AND    INDIGENT    YOUNG 
MEN. 

There  are,  who  knowledge  prize, 

Who  for  its  blessings  pray, 
But  penury  shuts  it  from  their  eyes, 

Rend  ye  those  shades  away. 

There  are,  who  fain  wonld  toil 

The  immortal  mind  to  lead, 
They  have  no  skill  to  till  its  soil, 

Send  ye  the  gifts  they  need. 

Ye,  who  such  bounty  yield 

Like  Heaven's  reviving  rain, 
Who  gird  these  striplings  for  the  field 

Shall  see  Goliath  slain. 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS.  195 


DEATH   OF   A   YOUNG  MUSICIAN. 

Music  was  in  thy  heart,  and  fast  entwin'd, 
And  closely  knotted  with  its  infant  strings, 
Were  the  rich  chords  of  me'ody.     When  youth 
And  Science  led  thee  to  their  classic  bower 
A  pale  and  patient  student,  the  lone  lamp 
Of  midnight  vigil,  found  thee  pouring  out 
Thy  soul  in  dulcet  sound.     In  Memory's  cell, 
Still  live  those  thrilling  tones,  as  erst  they  broke 
Beguiling  with  sweet  choral  symphonies 
The  festal  hour.     But  lo  !  while  thou  didst  wake 
The  solemn  organ  to  entrancing  power, 
Tracing  the  secret  spells  of  harmony, 
On  through  deep  rapture's  labyrinthine  maze, 
Devotion  came,  and  breath'd  upon  thy  brow, 
And  made  her  temple  in  thy  tuneful  breast 
So,  Music  led  thee  to  thy  Saviour's  feet, 
Serene  and  true  disciple,  and  their  harps 
Who  fondly  hold  untiring  guardianship 
O'er  frail  man's  pilgrim-path,  were  tremulous 
With  joy  for  thee. 

Nor  vainly  to  thy  soul 
Came  Heaven's  high  message  wrapped  in  minstrelsy, 
For  to  its  service,  with  unshrinking  zeal 
The  blossom  of  thy  life  was  dedicate. 
Thy  hand  was  on  God's  altar,  when  a  touch 
Sudden  and  strange  and  icy-cold,  unloos'd 
Its  fervent  grasp.     Thy  gentle  heart  was  glad 
With  the  soft  promise  of  a  hallow'd  love. 
But  stern  Death  dash'd  it  out.     Now  there  are  tears 


196  MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS. 

In  tenderest  eyes  for  thee. 

— Yet  we,  who  know 
That  Earth  hath  many  discords  for  a  soul 
Fine-ton'd  and  seraph  strung-,  and  that  the  feet 
Which  fain  would  follow  Christ,  are  sometimes  held 
In  the  dark  meshes  of  a  downward  course 
Till  strong  repentance  turn  them  back  with  tears, 
Do  feel  thy  gain. 

'Tis  well  thou  art  at  home, 
Spirit  of  melody  and  peace  and  love. 


TO   THE   EVENING   STAR. 

Pure  Planet !  to  the  darken'd  west 

Holding  thy  cresset  lone, 
Opposing  clouds  thy  course  molest, 

And  shade  thy  silver  throne  ; 
But  soaring  o'er  the  troubled  scene 

Unmov'd  by  frowns  of  time, 
Thou  with  fair  brow  and  ray  serene 

Dost  hold  thy  way  sublime. 

Oh  !  that  I  might  like  thee  discern 

My  chequer'd  path  aright, 
And  from  the  Fount  that  fills  thy  urn 

Drink  undelusive  light, 
And  when  that  storm  which  all  must  meet 

Shall  chill  my  throbbing  breast, 
Ascending  gain  that  peaceful  seat 

Where  all  the  weary  rest. 


MRS.    SIGOCRNEY's    POEMS.  197 


THE  DYING  BOY. 

His  pure  cheek  pressed  the  pillow,  and  its  hue 

So  late  like  the  fresh  rose's  heart,  was  pale, 

While  'mid  the  clustering  curls,  those  chill  dews  hung 

Which  fall  but  once. 

Still  o'er  that  beauteous  brow 
Where  fatal  languor  settled,  flashed  the  light 
Of  intellect,  as  a  faint  cry  burst  forth, 
"  Oh  !  mother  ! — mother  !" 

Then  there  was  a  pause, 
A  pang  too  deep  for  words. 

"  Your  mother  sleeps 
In  her  cold  grave,  my  son.     You  stood  with  me 
Bsside  its  brink.     Your  little  hand  clasped  mine 
Convulsively,  at  those  sad,  solemn  words, 
Ashes  to  ashes ! — when  the  clods  fell  down 
Upon  the  coffin  lid.     Two  months  have  past, 
And  every  night  your  cheek  was  wet  with  tears, 
For  that  dear  mother.     Say,  have  you  forgot  1 
Or  roves  your  mind  in  dreams  1     Speak,  dearest  one." 
— And  then  the  father  rais'd  that  drooping  head, 
And  laid  it  on  his  bosom,  and  bow'd  down 
A  listening  ear  close  to  those  murmuring  lips  : 
But  till  their  last  faint  whisper  died  away, 
There  was  no  sound  of  answer  to  his  voice, 
Save  "  mother  I   mother  I" 

Deem  ye  not  lie  err'd  ! 
For  she  who  at  his  cradle  caught  the  flame 
Of  that  deep  love,  which  time  may  never  quench, 
17* 


108  MRS.  sigoueney's  poems. 

Perchance,  was  nearer  to  her  son,  than  you 
Who  smooth'd  the  pillow  for  his  fever'd  head, 
Calling  yourselves  the  living,  tho'  ye  dwell 
In  death's  own  realm,  beneath  his  lifted  dart. 
Ye  gave  his  mother  to  the  earth-worm's  bed, 
But  can  ye  say  that  her  seraphic  smile 
Beam'd  not  upon  him,  as  he  struggling-  lay 
In  the  last  mortal  agony  1 

Her  lip 
Hail'd  her  frail  first-born  to  this  world  of  tears 
With  rapture's  speechless  kiss.     Know  ye,  how  warm, 
How  eloquent  its  welcome  to  that  clime 
Which  hath  no  death-pang  ? 

If  celestial  bands 
Feel  for  the  unknown  habitants  of  clay, 
A  hallowed  train  of  guardian   sympathies, 
And  fold  their  wings  around  them  as  they  run 
Time's  slippery  course,  with  what  a  flood  of  joy, 
With  what  refin'd,  exulting  intercourse, 
At  Heaven's  bright  threshold,  when  all  ills  are  past, 
A  mother  greets  her  child ! 

'Tiso'er!  'Tis  o'er  ! 
All  earthly  strife  in  that  soft  sigh  doth  end. 
Wrap  the  white  grave-robe  o'er  that  stainless  form, 
And  lay  it  by  her  side,  whose  breast  so  long 
Was  the  fond  pillow  for  his  golden  hair. 
Write  o'er  his  narrow  tomb,  "  His  well !  His  well .'" 
Then  turn  away  and  weep  : — for  weep  we  must, 
When  our  most  beautiful  and  treasur'd  things 
Fleet  from  this  shaded  earth. 

How  can  we  see 
Our  rifled  bowers  of  rest  in  ruin  laid 


MRS.    SIGOURXEY'S    POBMB.  199 

Without  a  tear?     Yet  He,  who  wills  the  wound, 
Can  shed  such  balm-drops  o'er  the  riven  heart, 
That  its  most  poignant  and  deep-rooted  grief 
Shall  bear  blest  fruit  in  Heaven. 


FILIAL   GRIEF. 

The  love  that  blest  our  infant  dream, 

That  dried  our  earliest  tear, 
The  tender  voice,  the  winning  smile 

That  made  our  home  so  dear  ; 
The  hand  that  urged  our  youthful  thought 

O'er  low  delights  to  soar, 
Whose  pencil  wrote  upon  our  souls, 

Alas  !  is  ours  no  more. 

Go,  lay  the  Bible  that  she  lov'd. 

Upon  her  coffin  lid, 
Its  spirit  like  a  precious  balm 

Deep  in  her  breast  was  hid, 
And  daily  o'er  its  page  she  bent 

With  calm  and  saintly  brow, 
It  was  her  chosen  friend  thron-  b  Life  : 

Take  it  not  from  her  now. 

Bring  forth,  bring  forth  the  plants  sh?  r  ar'd 

To  the  freest  sun  and  air, 
And  daily  o'er  their  welfare  watch 

With  all  a  florist'3  care, — 


200  MRS.    SIGOURNEY's     POEMS. 

Nor  let  a  blossom  that  she  nurs'ri, 
A  stem  she  taught  to  twine, 

By  aught  of  cold  forgetfulness 
Droop  on  the  parent  vine. 

And  in  our  hearts  the  germs  she  placed, 

With  the  warm  trust  of  prayer, 
Still  fondly  cherish  for  her  sake 

With  unabated  care  ; 
Deep  fear  of  God,  good  will  to  man, 

Religion's  meek  pursuit, 
These  were  the  seeds  our  mother  sowed, - 

Let  them  bear  perfect  fruit. 


«  TROUBLE    NOT    YOURSELVES,    FOR    HIS    LIFE 
IS  IN   HIM." 

Where  lingers  life  when  breath  is  o'er, 

When  light  and  motion  part  ? 
And  when  the  flowing  veins  no  more 

Supply  the  pulseless  heart? 
Beneath  that  brow  so  deadly  fair  ? 

That  changeless  marble  cheek  ? 
Those  lips  of  adamant?     Say,  where 

The  life  of  which  ye  speak  ? 

For  one  revered  and  loved  I  sought, 

His  hand  was  strangely  cold, 
And  o'er  his  form  the  shroud  had  wrought 

Its  labyrinthine  fold, 


sigoukkey's  poems.  201 


Kindred  and  strangers  near  him  prest, 

If  life's  elastic  bound, 
Still  thrilled  that  hospitable  breast, 

Where  was  the  greeting-  sound  1 

I  saw  him  'neath  that  hallowed  fane, 

Where  souls  to  God  draw  near, 
The  dirge  invoked  with  melting  strain 

His  inattentive  ear, — 
Borne  on  by  mourning  friends  he  came, 

They  bent  beneath  the  dead, 
If  life  inspired  that  manly  frame 

Where  was  the  buoyant  tread  7 

The  clay-cold  pillow  of  his  rest, 

Was  curtained  dark  as  night, 
Tho'  at  his  fireside,  fair  and  blest, 

The  evening  lamps  were  bright, 
And  deep,  a  voice  of  wailing  rose 

From  that  once  happy  dome, 
If  nought  the  fount  of  being  froze 

Why  turned  he  from  his  home  1 

But  while  in  bitterness  I  spake, 

Saviour  !  thy  voice  divine 
Claim'd  for  thy  cross  and  sufferings'  sake, 

The  deathless  soul  as  thine  : — 
Then  I  believed  that  he  who  slept 

Survived,  tho'  Nature  failed, 
And  while  an  earthly  sorrow  wept, 
The  faith  of  Heaven  p?-ev  ailed. 


202  MRS.   SIGOLTRNEy's    POEMS. 


DEATH  OF  MR.   OLIVER   D.   COOKE. 

Death's  shafts  are  ever  busy.     The  fair  haunts 

Where  least  we  dread  him,  and  where  most  the  soul 

Doth  lull  itself  to  fond  security 

Reveal  his  ministry  ;  and  were  not  man 

Blind  to  the  future,  he  might  see  the  sky 

Even  in  the  glory  of  its  cloudless  prime 

Dark  with  that  arrow-flight. 

They  deemed  it  so, 
Who  marked  thee  like  a  stately  column  fall, 
And  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  yield  back 
Thy  breath  to  Him  who  gave  it.     Yes, — they  felt, 
Who  saw  thy  vigorous  footstep  strangely  chained 
Upon  the  turf  it  traversed,  and  the  cheek 
Flushed  high  with  health,  to  mortal  paleness  turn'd, 
How  awful  such  a  rush  from  time  must  be. 
Thy  brow  was  calm,  yet  deep  within  thy  breast 
Were  ranklings  of  a  recent  grief  for  her 
The  idol  of  thy  tenderness,  with  whom 
Life  had  been  one  long  scene  of  changeless  love. 
Yea,  thou  didst  watch  the  winged  messenger 
In  sleepless  agony,  that  bore  her  hence, — 
And  when  the  eye  did  darken,  from  whose  beams 
Thine  own  had  drank  from  youth  its  dearest  joy, 
Upraised  thine  hands  and  gave  her  back  to  God, 
Bowing  thy  spirit  to  His  righteous  will, 
The  bleeding  of  thy  heart-strings  was  not  staunched, 
Nor  scarce  the  tear-gush  dried,  ere  Death's  dire  frost 
CongeaPd  the  fount  of  life. 


MRS.   SIGOUKNEV'S    POEMS.  203 

Thy  toil  had  been 
In  that  brief  interval,  to  bear  fresh  plants 
From  the  sweet  garden  which  she  loved  to  tend, 
And  bid  them  on  her  burial-pillow  bloom. 
But  ere  the  young  rose,  or  the  willow-tree 
Had  taken  their  simplest  rooting,  thouwert  laid 
Low  by  her  side.     It  was  a  pleasant  place 
Methought  to  rest, — earth's  weary  labor  done 
Fanned  by  the  waving  of  those  drooping  boughs, 
And  in  her  company,  whom  thou  didst  choose 
From  ail  the  world,  to  travel  by  thy  side, 
Confidingly, — by  deep  affection  cheer'd, 
And  in  thy  faith  a  sharer. 

From  the  haunts 
Of  living  men  thine  image  may  not  fleet 
Noteless  away.     They  will  remember  thee, 
By  many  a  word  of  witness  for  the  truth, 
And  many  a  deed  of  bounty.     In  the  sphere 
Of  those  sublimer  charities  that  gird 
The  mind — the  soul — thine  was  the  ready  hand  : 
And  for  the  hasting  of  that  day  of  peace 
Which  sheathes  the  sword,  thine  was  the  earnest  prayer. 
In  thine  own  hou^e  and  in  the  church  of  God 
There  will  be  weeping  for  thee.     Thou  no  more 
Around  thine  altar,  shalt  delight  to  see 
Thy  children,  and  thy  children's  children  come 
To  take  thy  patriarch  blessing, — and  no  more 
Bring  duly  to  you  consecrated  courts 
Thy  Sabbath  offering.     Thou  hast  gained  the  rest 
Which  earthly  Sabbaths  dimly  shadow  forth, 
And  to  that  ransomed  family  art  risen, 
Which  have  no  need  of  prayer. 


204  MRS-  sigourney's  poems. 

But  thou,  oh  man  ! 
Whose  hold  on  life  is  like  the  spider's  web, 
Who  hast  thy  footing-  'mid  so  many  snares, 
So  many  pitfalls,  yet  perceivest  them  not, — 
Seek  peace  with  Him  who  made  thee, — bind  the  shield 
Of  faith  in  Christ  more  firmly  o'er  thy  breast, 
That  when  its  pulse  stands  still,  thy  soul  may  pass 
Unshrinking-,  unreluctant,  unamazed, 
Into  the  fullness  of  the  light  of  Heaven. 


"LET  THERE   BE   LIGHT." 

A  Mission  Hymn. 

Light  for  the  dreary  vales 

Of  ice-bound  Labrador  ! 
Where  the  frost-king  breathes  on  the  slippery  sails 

Till  the  mariner  wakes  no  more, 
Lift  high  the  lamp  that  never  fails 

To  that  dark  and  sterile  shore. 

Light  for  the  forest  child  ! 

An  outcast  though  he  be 
From  haunts  where  the  sun  of  his  childhood  smiled, 

And  the  country  of  the  free, — 
Pour  the  hope  of  Heaven  o'er  his  desert-wild, 

For  what  home  on  earth  has  he  ? 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS.  205 

Light  for  the  cliffs  of  Greece  ! 

Light  for  that  trampled  clime  ! 
Where  the  wrath  of  the  Spoiler  refused  to  cease 

Ere  it  wrecked  the  boast  of  time, — 
See  !  the  Moslem  hath  dealt  the  gift  of  peace, 

Grudge  ye  your  boon  sublime  1 

Light  on  the  Hindoo  shed  ! 

On  the  maddening  idol-train  ; 
The  flame  of  the  Suttee  is  dire  and  red, 

And  the  Fakir  faints  with  pain, 
And  the  dying  moan  on  their  cheerless  bed 

By  the  Ganges  laved  in  vain. 

Light  for  the  Persian  sky  ! 

The  Sophi's  wisdom  fades, 
And  the  pearls  of  Ormus  are  poor  to  buy 

Armour  when  Death  invades  ; 
Hark  !  Hark  !  to  the  sainted  martyr's  sigh 

From  Ararat's  mournful  shades. 

Light  for  the  Burman  vales  ! 

For  the  islands  of  the  sea  ! 
For  the  land  where  the  slave-ship  fills  its  sails 

With  sighs  of  agony, 
And  her  kidnapped  babes  the  mother  wails, 

'Neath  the  lone  banana-tree. 

Light  for  the  ancient  race 

Exiled  from  Zion's  rest ! 
Homeless  they  roam  from  place  to  place, 

Benighted  and  opprest ; 
They  shudder  at  Sinai's  fearful  base, — 

Guide  them  to  Calvary's  breast. 
18 


206  -MBS-    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS. 

Light  for  the  darkened  earth  ! 

Long  midnight  fleets  away, 
The  Gospel  day-star  springs  to  birth, 

Whose  bright,  prelusive  ray 
Shall  glow,  till  a  glorious  morning  brings 

Eternity's  cloudless  day. 


THE   DEFECTION   OF  THE   DISCIPLES. 

"Then  all  the  disciples  forsook  him  and  fled." — St.  Matthew. 

Fled ! — and  from  whom  1     The  Man  of  woe 

Who  in  Gethsemane  had  felt 
Such  pangs  as  bade  the  blood-drops  flow 

And  the  crushed  heart  with  anguish  melt  \ 
They  who  were  gathered  round  his  board, 

Partook  his  love,  beheld  his  power, 
Saw  the  sick  healed,  the  dead  restored, 

Fail'd  they  to  watch  one  fearful  hour  ! 

All  fled  ?     Yet  one  there  was  who  laid 

His  head  upon  that  sacred  breast, 
By  Friendship's  holy  ardor  made 

A  cherished,  an  illustrious  guest ; 
One  too,  who  walked  with  Christ  the  wave 

When  the  mad  sea  confessed  his  sway, 
And  strangely  sealed  her  gaping  grave, — 

Fled  these  forgetfully  away] 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY'S   POEMS.  207 

Yes. — All  forsook  the  Master's  side 

When  fogs  and  dangers  clustered  round, 
And  when  in  bitterness  he  cried, 

'Mid  the  dread  garden's  awful  bound, 
Yet  knew  they  not  how  near  him  stood 

The  host  of  Heaven,  a  guardian  train, 
Deploring  man's  ingratitude, 

And  wondering  at  his  Saviour's  pain. 

Oh  !  ye,  whose  hearts  in  secret  bleed 

O'er  transient  Hope,  like  morning  dew, 
O'er  friendship  faithless  in  your  need, 

Or  love  to  all  its  vows  untrue, 
Who  shrink  from  Persecution's  rod 

Or  slander's  fang,  or  Treachery's  tone, 
Look  meekly  to  the  Son  of  God, 

And  in  his  griefs  forget  your  own. 

Forsaken  are  ye  1 — so  was  he, — 

Reviled  1 — yet  check  the  vengeful  word, — 
Rejected  1 — should  the  servant  be 

Exalted  o'er  his  suffering  Lord  1 
Nor  deem  that  Heaven's  omniscient  eye 

Is  e'er  regardless  of  your  lot, — 
Deluded  man  from  God  may  fly, 

But  when  was  man  by  God  forgot  ? 


208  MRS.    SIGOUBNEY'S    POEMS. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FRIEND. 

She  passeth  hence, — a  friend  from  loving  friends, 

A  mother  from  her  children.     Time  hath  shed 

No  frost  upon  her,  and  the  tree  of  life 

Glows  in  the  freshness  of  its  summer  prime. — 

Yet  still  she  passeth  hence  :  Her  work  on  earth 

Soon  done  and  well.     Hers  was  the  unwavering  mind, 

The  untiring  hand  in  duty.     Firm  of  soul 

And  pure  in  purpose,  on  the  eternal  Rock 

Of  Christian  trust  her  energies  reposed, 

And  sought  no  tribute  from  a  shadowy  world. 

Her  early  hope  and  homage  clave  to  God, 

When  the  bright  skies,  the  untroubled  founts  of  youth 

With  all  their  song-birds,  all  their  flowers  rose  up 

To  tempt  her  spirit.     So,  in  hours  of  pain 

He  did  remember  her,  and  on  her  brow 

And  in  her  breast  the  dove-like  messenger 

Found  peaceful  home. 

Oh  thou  whom  grieving  love 
Would  blindly  pinion  in  this  vale  of  tears, 
Farewell  !     It  is  a  glorious  flight  for  faith 
To  trace  thy  upward  path,  above  this  clime 
Of  change  and  storm.     We  will  remember  thee 
At  thy  turf-bed, — and  'mid  the  twilight  hour 
Of  solemn  musing,  when  the  buried  friend 
Comes  back  so  visibly,  and  seems  to  fill 
The  vacant  chair,  our  speech  shall  be  of  thee. 


MRS.    SIGOUBNEY's    POEMS.  209 


CHILD  LEFT  IN  A  STORM. 

Adapted  to  a  painting  of  Sully. 

"The  scene  is  the  sea-shore, — a  storm  has  suddenly  come  up, — the 
company  are  all  running  for  shelter, — the  little  child  is  forgotten,  — and 
as  innocence  knows  no  fear,  continues  to  play  with  the  waves,  as  they 
break  over  its  feet." 

Why  dost  thou  sport  amid  these  swelling  waves, 

Child  of  the  frolic  brow  3     The  billows  roll 

Foaming-  and  vexing  with  a  maniac's  wrath, 

To  do  unuttered  deeds, — and  the  wild  clouds 

Muster  and  frown,  as  if  bold  Midnight  reared 

Her  throne  at  noon-day.     Hearest  thou  not  the  winds 

Uttering  their  ruffian  threats  ?     Is  this  a  time 

To  lave  that  snowy  foot  1     Away  !  Away  ! 

— What !  have  all  fled  % — and  art  thou  left  alone 

By  those  who  wandered  with  thee  on  the  beach 

In  the  fair  sun-light  of  a  summer's  morn  ! 
Forgotten  thus  !     Hadst  thou  a  mother, — sweet  ? 
Oh  ! — no — no — no.     She  had  not  turned  away 
Though  the  strong  tempest  swelled  to  tenfold  wrath, — 
She  had  not  fled  without  thee,  had  not  breathed 
In  safety  or  at  ease,  save  when  she  heard 
Thy  murmured  tone  beside  her, — had  not  slept 
Until  thy  drenched  and  drooping  curls  were  dried 
In  her  fond  bosom.     Nature  never  made 
A  mother  to  forget.     Why,  she  had  dared 
Yon  fiercest  surge  to  save  thee,  or  had  plunged, 

Clasping  thee  close  and  closer,  down,  down,  down, 
Where  thou  art  going. 

Lo,  the  breakers  rush 
Bellowing  to  demand  thee.     Shrink  not  child  ! 
18* 


210  MBS-  sigooeney's  poems. 

Innocence  need  not  fear.     Go  to  thy  sleep 

'Mid  Ocean's  sunless  flowers.     The  lullaby 

Of  the  mermaiden  shall  thy  requiem  be, 

And  the  white  coral  thou  dist  love  to  mix 

Among-  thy  penciled  shells,  shall  lightly  rear 

A  canopy  above  thee.     Amber  drops 

Shall  gem  thy  golden  tresses,  and  thy  ear 

No  more  the  echoes  of  the  warring  main 

Appalled  shall  hear.     Thy  God  shall  guard  thy  rest. 


THE  PESTILENCE. 

I  hear  it  on  the  blast.     There  is  a  sound 

Of  heavy  pinions  on  the  midnight  cloud, 

A  wailing  riseth  from  the  strong  man's  couch  : 

He  with  the  busiest  of  the  throng  did  mix 

When  morning  shone,  and  now  ere  set  of  sun, 

The  gasp  and  death-cry  warn  thee  where  he  lies. 

— Death  treadeth  on  the  heels  of  buoyant  health, 

Leaving  no  interval  for  shift  or  prayer. 

The  hearse  doth  meet  us  whereso'er  we  turn, 

And  pass  unheeded,  like  a  household  thing. 

The  angel  of  Destruction  walks  his  round, 

At  noon-day  in  the  city,  and  the  tomb 

Doth  gather  riches  till  its  treasure-vaults 

O'erflow.     Around  their  mournful  board  at  eve, 

The  stricken  and  diminished  circle  draw, 

Each  on  the  other  fixing  that  sad  glance 

Which  aske,  "  who  next  ?"     While  every  heart  responds, 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY's   POEMS.  211 

"  Lord  is  it  7?"     But  'mid  the  mournful  homes 

Where  pallid  fear  and  agony  chastise 

Each  wonted  joy, — say,  are  there  none  who  read 

In  all  earth's  change  the  counsels  of  the  skies  ? 

None,  who,  close  wrapped  in  panoply  divine, 

Show  their  faith's  value  in  this  hour  of  need  1 

Up,  ye  who  follow  with  unshrinking  step 

Him  who  o'ercame  the  grave, — up,  trim  your  lamp, 

And  do  his  holy  will.     Amid  the  haunts 

Of  poverty  and  pain,  with  angel-step 

Send  forth  your  bounty.     On  the  cherished  field 

Where  God  hath  given  you  nurture,  fix  the  eye, 

As  one  who  soon  may  leave  it.     Lurks  there  aught 

Of  tare   or  bramble,  in  your  hallowed  bower  ? 

Amid  the  vineyard  of  your  dearest  hopes, 

Lurks  there  no  root  of  bitterness  1 — no  seed 

Of  truth  unsown,  which  you  would  fain  have  watched 

Unto  the  harvest  1     Are  there  olive-plants 

Around  your  table,  and  do  baleful  weeds 

Corrupt  their  root,  or  with  their  blossoms  twine  1 

Go  to  your  work  with  diligence,  as  one 

Whose  time  is  short.     Strike  to  the  secret  heart 

A  searching  glance, — and  if  aught  linger  there, 

Though  shrouded  cunningly, — one  evil  germ, — 

Be  firm  in  extirpation,  and  invoke 

The  aid  of  that  pure  spirit,  who  doth  deign 

To  dwell  in  fleshly  temples  and  prepare 

Equal  for  life  or  death,  the  trusting  soul. 


212  MRS-  sigouhney's  poems. 


GARAFILIA  MOHALBY. 

A  beautiful  Greek,  girl,  adopted  by  a  benevolent  family  in   Boston, 
who  fell  a  victim  to  a  rapid  consumption,  at  the  age  of  thirteen. 

Sweet  bird  of  Ispara  !  who  fled 

From  tyrants  o'er  the  tossing  sea, 
And  on  the  winds  of  freedom  shed 

Thy  wildly  classic  melody, 
Love  at  thy  tender  warbling  woke, 

A  foreign  land  was  home  to  thee, 
And  stranger  accents  fondly  spoke 

The  welcome  of  paternity. 

Why  was  thy  tarrying  here  so  brief, 

Thou  sheltered  in  affection's  breast? 
Here  were  no  woes  to  wake  thy  grief, 

No  dangers  to  disturb  thy  rest : — 
Ah  !  thou  hadst  heard  of  that  blest  clime 

Where  everlasting  glories  beam,- — 
Perchance  its  pageantry  sublime 

Had  burst  upon  thy  raptured  dream. 

Thy  bright  wing  spread.     Should  aught  detain 

The  prisoner  in  a  cage  of  clay, 
When  echoing  from  the  heavenly  plain 

Congenial  tones  forbid  delay  1 
No. — Where  no  archer's  shaft  can  fly, 

No  winter  check  the  tuneful  sphere 
Rise  wanderer  to  thy  native  sky, 

And  warble  in  a   Saviour's  ear. 


MRS.    SIGOUBNEV'S   POEMS.  218 


The  Son  of  Man,  is  Lord  of  the  Sabbath."— Matthew  xii,  I 

Behold,  the  day  of  rest.     The  purple  morn 
As  if  baptiz'd  in  purer  light,  doth  spread 
Its  banner  forth.     Toil  wears  a  cheerful  smile, 
And  Piety,  in  silent  prayer  reclines, 
Pondering  the  page  inspir'd. 

There  was  a  Seer, 
Who  'neath  Beersheba's  groves,  in  ancient  days 
Dwelt  as  a  prince.     Once,  towards  Moriah's  mount, 
To  do  a  strange  and  fearful  sacrifice, 
He  journey 'd  with  his  son.     Just  where  its  base 
Sprang  steeply  from  the  valley's  breast,  he  paus'd, 
And  to  his  servants  spake, — "  Abide  ye  here, 
While  we  ascend  and  worship."     Thus  our  souls 
Would  charge  the  busy  cares  that  thro'  the  week 
Held  them  in  bondage, — "  Enter  not  the  bound 
Of  consecration  ;  ye  are  of  the  earth, 
Here  rest,  till  we  return." 

Thou  !  who  didst  rise 
O'er  the  seal'd  sepulchre,  the  Roman  guard 
Rigorous  and  vigilant,  so  grant  us  grace 
To  rise,  on  this  thy  day.     And  when  we  come 
Down  from  the  mount  of  blessing,  to  our  paths 
Of  daily  care  and  duty,  should  we  ask 
Imperative,  our  happiness  from  Earth, 
Send  us  that  message  which  the  angels  spake 
To  those  who  mournful  search'd  thy  vacant  tomb, 
"  Not  here,  but  risen," 


214  MRS-  sigourney's  poems. 

So  give  us  power  to  walk 
Even  till  another  Sabbath,  with  a  heart 
Full  of  sublime  remembrances,  a  brow 
Bearing  them  brightly  forth,  like  him  who  learn'd 
On  Sinai's  cliff,  the  language  of  the  skies. 


ON  SEEING  A  LADY'S  GOLD  CHATN    AMONG  THE 
OFFERINGS  AT  A  TEMPERANCE  SOCIETY. 

Would  that  thou  hadst  a  voice,  thou  graceful  toy, 

To  tell  me  of  the  giver.     Fancy  paints 

A  young  and  radiant  brow,  and  a  clear  eye 

Kindling  with  holier  light,  as  thou  wert  thrown 

Off  from  the  polish'd  neck.     Thou  wert,  perchance, 

Some  favor'd  gift,  the  talisman  of  Love, 

Or  Friendship's  bright  memento.     Still  'tis  well, 

That  thou  art  here.     Henceforth  that  Love  shall  be 

Remember'd  by  the  hallow'd  deeds  that  bless 

And  save  mankind  ;  nor  could  pure  Friendship  ask    j 

A  truer  token  than  the  heaven-wrought  links 

That  bind  the  soul  to  virtue. 

So  go  forth, 
Thou  glittering  gift,  well  barter'd  for  the  wealth 
Of  changeless  memory.     She  who  wore  thee  once, 
With  the  fond  thrill  of  vanity,  hath  found 
A  better  ornament,  than  gold  or  pearls, 
Or  rich  array. 

Blest  stranger,  still  be  true 
To  mercy's  angel-prompting.     What  thine  hand 
Can  do  for  other's  good,  do  with  the  might 


MRS.    SIGOURNEy's    POEM3.  215 

Of  woman's  tenderness.     With  flowery  links 

Of  soft  persuasion,  draw  the  erring  soul 

Back  from  that  beetling  precipice,  where  foams 

The  fiery  flood  of  ruin.     Toil  to  uproot 

Those  weeds  of  Vice,  that  by  the  wayside  spring, 

Or  in  the  garden,  'mid  its  choicest  flowers, 

Unblushingly  intrude.     Serenely  show 

In  thine  own  saintly  life,  the  blessedness 

Of  that  meek  mind,  which  Temperance  and  Peace 

Fair-handed  sisters,  guide  in  duty's  path, 

And  crown  with  beauty,  that  survives  the  tomb. 


DEATH   OF  AN   AGED   MAN. 

Rise,  weary  spirit,  to  a  realm  of  rest ! 

Sorrow  hath  had  her  will  of  thee,  and  Pain, 
With  a  destroyer's  fury  prob'd  thy  breast, 

But  thou,  the  victory  through  Christ  didst  gain  ; 
Rise,  freed  from  stain. 

Years  wrote  their  history  on  thy  furrow 'd  brow 
In  withering  lines  ;  and  Time  like  ocean's  foam 

Swept  o'er  the  shores  of  hope,  till  thou  didst  know 
Earth's  emptiness.     But  now  no  more  to  roam 
Pass  to  thy  home. 

Blest  filial  Love  rescu'd  its  freshest  wreath 

Of  changeless  green  and  blooming  buds  for  thee, 

And  o'er  thy  bosom  threw  its  grateful  breath, 
When  the  waste  world,  but  weeds  of  misery 
Spread  for  thine  eye. 


216  MRS-  sigourney's  poems. 

Take  up  the  triumph-song",  thou  who  didst  bow 
So  long  and  meekly,  'neath  the  Chastener's  rod, 

Thou  whose  firm  faith  beheld  with  raptur'd  glow 
The  resurrection  cleave  the  burial-sod, 
Go  to  thy  God. 


«  THY  WILL  BE  DONE." 
When  with  unclouded  ray 

Shines  the  bright  sun, 
When  summer  streamlets  play, 
And  all  around  is  gay, 
Then  shall  the  spirit  say, 

"  Thy  will  be  done  V 

No. — When  the  flowers  of  love 

Fade,  one  by  one, 
When  in  its  blasted  grove 
The  shuddering  heart  doth  rove, 
Then  say,  and  look  above 

"  Thy  will  be  done." 


MRS.    SIGOURNEy's    POEMS.  217 

DEATH  OF  WILBERFORCE. 

I  heard  loud  praise  of  heroes.     But  I  saw 
The  blood-stain  on  their  tablet.     Then  I  marked 
A  torrent  rushing  trom  its  mountain  height, 
Bearing  the  uptorn  laurel,  while  its  strength 
Among  the  arid  sands  of  Vanity 
Did  spend  itself,  and  lo  !  a  warning  voice 
Sighed  o'er  the  Ocean  of  Eternity, 
"  Behold  the  warrior s  glory" 

History  came, 
Sublimely  soaring  on  her  wing  of  light, 
And  many  a  name  of  palatine  and  peer, 
Monarch  and  prince  on  her  proud  scroll  she  bore, 
Blazoned  by  fame.     But  'mid  the  sea  of  time, 
Helmet,  and  coronet  and  diadem 
Rose  boastful  up,  and  shone,  and  disappeared, 
Like  the  white  foam-crest  on  the  tossing  wave, 
Forgotten,  while  beheld. 

I  heard  a  knell 
Toll  slow  amid  the  consecrated  aisles 
Where  slumber  England's  dead.     A  solemn  dirge 
Broke  forth  amid  the  tomb  of  kings,  and  said 
That  man  was  dust.     And  then  a  nation's  tears 
Fell  down  like  rain,  for  it  was  meet  to  mourn. 
But  from  the  land  of  palm-trees,  where  doth  flow 
Sweet  incense  forth  from  grove,  and  gum,  and  flower, 
Came  richer  tribute,  breathing  o'er  that  tomb 
A  prostrate  nation's  thanks. 

Yes,  Afric  knelt, 
That  mourning  mother,  and  thoughout  the  earth 
19 


218  -MRS.    SIGOURNEY'S    POEMS. 

Taught  her  unfettered  children  to  repeat 
The  name  of  Wilberforce,  and  bless  the  spot 
Made  sacred  by  his  ashes.     Yea,  the  World 
Arose  upon  her  crumbling  throne,  to  praise 
The  lofty  mind  that  never  knew  to  swerve 
Though  holy  truth  should  summon  it  to  meet 
The  frown  of  the  embattled  universe. 
And  so  I  bowed  me  down  in  this  far  nook 
Of  the  far  West,  and  proudly  traced  the  name 
Of  Wilberforce  upon  my  country's  scroll, 
To  be  her  guide,  as  she  unchained  the  slave, 
And  the  bright  model  of  her  sons  who  seek 
True  glory.     And  from  every  village-haunt 
And  school,  where  rustic  Science  quaintly  reigns, 
I  called  the  little  ones,  and  forth  they  came 
To  hear  of  Afric's  champion,  and  to  bless 
The  firm  in  purpose  and  the  full  of  days. 


THE   CHRISTIAN  MOURNER. 

I  saw  a  dark  procession  slowly  wind 
*Mid  funeral  shades,  and  a  lone  mourner  stand 
Fast  by  the  yawning  of  the  pit  that  whelm'd 
His  bosom's  idol. 

Then  the  sable  scene 
Faded  away,  and  to  his  alter 'd  home 
Sad  Fancy  follow'd  him,  and  saw  him  fold 
His  one,  lone  babe,  in  agoniz'd  embrace, 
And  kiss  the  brow  of  trusting  innocence, 


Mas.  sigourney's  poems.  219 

That  in  its  blessed  ignorance  wail'd  not 

A  mother  lost.     Yet  she  who  would  have  watch'd 

Each  germ  of  intellect,  each  bud  of  truth, 

Each  fair  unfolding  of  the  fruit  of  Heaven 

With  thrilling  joy,  was  like  the  marble  cold. 

— There  were  the  flowers  she  planted,  blooming  fair, 

As  if  in  mockery, — there  the  varied  stores 

That  in  the  beauty  of  their  order  charm'd 

At  once  the  tasteful,  and  the  studious  hour, 

Pictures,  and  tinted  shells,  and  treasur'd  tomes, 

But  the  presiding  mind,  the  cheerful  voice, 

The  greeting  glance,  the  spirit-stirring  smile, 

Are  fled  forever. 

And  he  knoweth  all ! 
Hath  felt  it  all,  deep  in  his  tortur'd  soul, 
Till  reason  and  philosophy  did  faint, 
Beneath  a  grief  like  his.     Whence  hath  he  then 
The  power  to  comfort  others,  and  to  speak 
Thus  of  the  resurrection  ! 

He  hath  found 
That  hope,  which  is  an  anchor  to  the  soul, 
And  with  a  martyr-courage  holds  him  up 
To  bear  the  will  of  God. 

Say,  ye  who  tempt 
The  sea  of  life,  by  summer-gales  impell'd, 
Have  ye  this  anchor  ]     Sure  a  time  will  come 
For  storms  to  try  you,  and  strong  blasts  to  rend 
Your  painted  sails,  and  shred  your  gold  like  chaff 
O'er  the  wild  wave  ;  and  what  a  wreck  is  man 
If  sorrow  find  him  unsustain'd  by  God. 


220  MRS.    SIGOURNEY's   POEMS. 

"I  will  wait  upon  the  Lord  thathideth  his  face." — Isaiah- 

Where'er  thine  earthly  lot  is  cast, 

Whate'er  its  duties  prove, 
To  toil  'neath  Penury's  piercing  blast, 

Or  share  the  cell  of  love, 
Or  'mid  the  pomp  of  wealth  to  live, 

Or  wield  of  power  the  rod, 
Still  as  a  faithful  servant  strive 

To  wait  alone  on  God. 

Should  disappointment's  blighting  sway 

Destroy  of  joy  the  bloom, 
Till  one  by  one,  thy  hopes  decay 

In  darkness  and  the  tomb, 
Should  Heaven  its  cheering  smile  withhold 

From  thy  disastrous  fate, 
And  foes  arise  like  billows  bold, 

Still,  on  Jehovah  wait. 

When  timid  dawn  her  couch  forsakes, 

Or  noon-day  splendors  glide, 
Or  eve,  her  curtain'd  pillow  takes 

While  watchful  stars  preside, 
Or  midnight  warns  the  hosts  of  care 

Far  from  his  ebon  throne, 
Unwearied  in  thy  fervent  prayer 

Wait  thou  on  God  alone. 

But  should  he  still  conceal  his  face 

Till  flesh  and  spirit  fail, 
And  bid  thee  darkly  run  the  race 

Of  Time's  receding  vale, 


MRS.  SIGOURNEy's    POEMS.  221 

With  what  a  doubly  glorious  ray 

His  smile  will  light  that  sky 
Where  ransom'd  souls  rejoicing  lay 

Their  robes  of  mourning  by. 


JUDGE   TRUMBULL. 

I  saw  him  in  his  reverie.     Night  had  drawn 

Dense  curtains  o'er  the  slumbering,  snow-rob'd  earth, 

And  a  lone  lamp  its  fitful  lustre  threw 

Upon  his  musing  brow.     'Twas  mark'd  by  age, 

And  thought  profound,  perchance,  with  sadness  ting'd, 

Yet  from  the  piercing  eye  that  beauty  beam'd 

Which  wrinkled  Time  respecteth. 

This  was  he, 
Whose  shaft  of  Wit  had  touch 'd  the  epic  strain 
With  poignant  power,  the  father  of  the  harp, 
In  his  own  native  vales.     He  seem'd  to  muse 
As  if  those  lov'd  retreats  did  spread  themselves 
Again  before  his  eye.     The  sighing  wind 
Through  the  long  branches  of  those  ancient  trees 
Where  first  his  boyhood  lisp'd  the  lore  of  song, 
Doth  lull  his  soul.     Then  brighter  visions  come, 
A  sound  of  music  rises.     'Tis  thy  voice 
Connecticut !  as  when  by  vernal  rains 
Surcnarg'd,  it  swell'd  in  tuneful  murmurs  round 
The  vine-clad  mansion,  where  his  children  grew. 
But  lo  !  the  clangor  of  yon  mighty  lakes 
Holding  hoarse  conflict  with  the  winged  storm 
Breaks  up  the  melody.     And  is  it  so] 
19* 


222  MRS.   SIGOUBNEY's    POEMS. 

That  in  the  feebleness  of  four  score  years, 
Thou,  with  unshrinking  hand  dost  pitch  thy  tent 
Near  the  rude  billows  of  the  Michigan, 
And  mark  in  that  far  land,  young  life  start  forth 
In  vigor  and  in  beauty  and  in  power, 
Where  erst  the  Indian  and  the  panther  dwelt, 
Sole  lords  ?     It  was  a  bold  emprise  to  change 
The  robe  of  science  and  of  minstrelsy, 
Worn  from  thy  cradle  onward,  for  the  staf 
Of  the  rough  emigrant. 

Again  I  look'd, 
His  lamp  had  faded,  and  the  learned  page 
Was  closed  within  his  study.     The  blest  book 
Of  God's  great  love  to  man,  was  open  still : 
Where  was  the  eye  that  ponderd  it  ?  the  heart 
That  priz'd  it  more  than  Greek  or  Roman  lore? 
— There  was  a  shroud ,  a  pall,  a  tender  sigh 
Of  Woman's  grief,  and  'neath  the  broken  sods 
Of  that  New  World,  the  patriarch  poet  lies, 
"And  idust  to  dusf  concludes  our  noblest  song.': 
— Master  and  friend  1  until  this  feeble  lyre 
In  silence  moulders,  till  my  heart  forget 
The  thrill  of  gratitude,  the  love  of  song, 
The  praise  of  virtue,  shall  thine  image  dwell 
Bright  with  the  beauty  of  benignant  age 
In  my  soul's  temple-shrine. 


MRS.    SIGOUBXEy's    POEMS.  "223 

PRAYER. 

"Peter,  therefore,  was  kept  in  prison,— but  prayer  was  made,   with- 
out ceasing,  of  the  Church  unto  God  for  him."— Acts  xii.  5. 

He  slept  between  two  soldiers,  bound  with  chains, 
Waiting  the  hour,  when  wily  Herod's  hand 
Should  point  his  martyr-doom.      Yet  still,  he  slept, 
Peaceful  as  the  young-  babe.     And  lo  !  a  light 
Gleam'd  o'er  the  dungeon-darkness,  and  a  voice 
Not  of  this  earth,  poured  forth  the  high  command, 
"  Peter, — arise." 

Then  the  investing  chains 
Melted  from  off  his  limbs,  and  he  arose 
And  rob'd  himself,  and  girt  his  sandals  on, 
And  follow'd  where  the  wondering  messenger 
Guided,  with  shining  track.     The  iron  gate, 
That  guarded  portal  of  the  City's  wall, 
As  if  it  knew  Heaven's  high  ambassador, 
Turn'd  on  its  massy  hinge.     So,  on  they  past, 
Free  and  unquestion'd,  till  the  seraph's  wing 
Outspread,  in  parting  flight.     With  snowy  trace 
Awhile  it  hover'd, — then,  like  radiant  star 
From  its  bright  orbit  loos'd,  wTent  soaring  up, 
High  o'er  the  arch  of  night. 

Then  Peter  knew 
The  Angel  of  the  Lord, — for  he  had  deem'd 
Some  blessed  vision  held  his  tranced  sight, 
In  strange  illusion. 

With  the  voice  of  praise, 
His  joyous  steps  a  well  known  threshhold  sought, 
The  home  of  Mary.     Midnight  reign'd  around, 
And  heavy  sleep  hung  o'er  Jerusalem. 


224  MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS. 

Yet  here  they  slumber'd  not.     A  sigh  arose 

Of  ardent  supplication,  for  the  friend 

In  durance  and  in  chains.    But  can  ye  paint 

The  astonish'd  gaze,  with  which  those  tearful  eyes 

Did  fasten  on  his  features,  as  he  stood 

Sudden,  amid  the  group  ] 

High  Heaven  had  heard 
The  prayer  of  faith.     And  heard  it  not  the  breath 
Of  gratitude,  from  every  trembling  lip, 
Ascribing  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 
Whose  holy  angel  had  his  servant  freed 
From  the  high-handed  malice  of  the  Jews, 
And  from  the  wrath  of  Herod  1 

Ye,  who  held 
The  key  of  prayer,  that  key  which  enlereili  Heaven, 
How  long  will  ye  be  doubtful  1  and  how  long 
Seek  from  brief  Earth,  the  help  she  cannot  give, 
Choosing  her  broken  cisterns  ?     Say  !  how  long  ? 


THE   BROKEN   VASE. 

So,  here  thou  art  in  ruins,  brilliant  Vase, 
Beneath  my  footsteps.     'Tis  a  pity,  sure, 
That  aught  so  beautiful,  should  find  its  fate, 
From  careless  fingers. 

Fain  would  I  divine 
Thy  history.     Who  shap'd  thy  graceful  form, 
And  touch'd  thy  pure,  transparent  brow  with  tints 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY'S    POEMS.  225 

Of  varied  hue,  and  gave  the  enamel'd  robe, 
Deep-wrought  with  gold  1 

Thou  wert  a  costly  gift. 
Perchance,  a  present  to  some  fair  young  bride, 
Who  'mid  her  wedding-treasures  nicely  pack'd 
Thee  in  soft  cotton,  that  the  jarring  wheel 
O'er  the  rough  road  careering,  might  not  mar 
Thy  symmetry.     Within  her  new  abode, 
She  proudly  plac'd  thee,  rich  with  breathing  flowers, 
And  as  the  magic  shell  from  ocean  borne 
Doth  hoard  the  murmur  of  its  coral-caves, 
So  thou  didst  tell  her  twilight  reverie,  tales 
Of  her  far  home,  and  seem  to  breathe  the  tones 
Of  her  young,  sporting  sisters. 

'Tis  in  vain  ! 
No  art  may  join  these  fragments,  or  cement 
Their  countless  chasms. 

And  yet  there's  many  a  wreck 
Of  costlier  things,  for  which  the  wealth  of  Earth 
May  yield  no  reparation. 

He,  who  hangs 
His  all  of  happiness  on  beauty's  smile, 
And  'mid  that  dear  illusion,  treads  on  thorns, 
And  feels  no  wound,  or  climbs  the  rocky  steep 
Unconscious  of  fatigue,  hath  oft-times  mark'd 
A  dying  dolphin's  brightness  at  his  feet. 
And  found  it  but  the  bubble  of  his  hope, 
Disparting  like  the  rainbow. 

They  who  run 
Ambition's  race,  and  on  their  compeers  tread 
With  fever'd  eagerness  to  grasp  the  goal, 


226  MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS. 

Oft  see  the  envied  prize,  like  waxen  toy 
Melt  in  the  passion-struggle. 

He,  who  toils 
Till  lonely  midnight,  o'er  the  waning  lamp, 
Twining  the  cobweb  of  poetic  thought, 
Or  forging  links  from  Learning's  molten  gold, 
Till  his  brain  dazzles,  and  his  eye  turns  dim, 
Then  spreads  his  gatherings  with  a  proud  delight 
To  the  cold  bosom'd  public,  oft  perceives 
Each  to  his  "  farm  and  merchandise"  return 
Regardless  of  his  wisdom,  or  perchance 
Doth  hear  the  hammer  of  harsh  criticism, 
Grinding  his  ore  to  powder,  finer  far 
Than  the  light  sand  of  Congo's  yellow  stream. 
— Yea,  'mid  earth's  passing  pilgrims,  many  a  one 
Of  its  new-gained  possessions,  fondly  proud, 
Doth  like  the  Patriarch,  find  his  seven  years'  toil 
Paid  with  a  poor  deceit. 

Crush'd  Vase,  farewell. 
I  thank  thee  for  thy  lesson.     Thou  hast  warn'd 
That  the  heart's  treasures  be  not  rashly  risk'd 
In  earthern  vessels,  but  in  caskets  stor'd, 
Above  the  wrecking  ministry  of  Time. 


MBS.    SIGOURXEY's    POEMS.  227 


THE  TOWER  AT  MONTEVIDEO. 

Written  after  visiting  the  beautiful  summer  residence  of  Daniel 
Wadsworth,  Esq.,  on  Talcot  mountain,  near  Hartford,  Conn., 
which  bears  the  name  of  Montevideo. 

Full  many  a  year  hath  past  away, 

Thou  rude,  old  Tower,  so  stern  and  grey, 

Since  first  I  came,  enthusiast  lone, 

To  worship  at  thy  hermit  throne. 

— Tho'  wintry  blast,  and  sweeping-  rain 

Have  mark'd  thee  with  their  iron  stain, 

Yet  freely  springing  at  thy  feet, 

New  beauties  wreathe  their  garland  sweet. 

Young  flowers  the  ancient  wilds  perfume, 

In  tangled  dells,  fresh  roses  bloom, 

And  foliage  wraps    with  mantle  deep, 

The  trap-rock  ledges,  harsh  and  steep. 

— Still  spreads  the  lake  its  mirror  clear, 

The  forest- warblers  charm  the  ear, 

The  glorious  prospect  opens  wide 

Its  varied  page  in  summer's  pride, 

And  tasteful  hands  have  deftly  wove 

Enchantment's  spell  o'er  vale  and  grove. 

Farewell  old  Tower  !  thou  still  shalt  be 

Remember'd  as  a  friend  by  me, 

Who  bring'st  from  time's  recorded  track 

The  buds  of  joy  profusely  back, 

And  sweetly  from  thy  turrets  hoar 

The  song  of  gratitude  dost  pour, 

Nor  spare  around  my  path  to  fling, 

Young  Memory's  brightest  blossoming. 


228  MRS.    SIGOURKEY'S    POEMS. 

— When  next  we  meet,  perchance,  the  trace 

Of  age  shall  tint  thy  tottering  base, 

And  I,  with  added  plainness  show 

The  wrinkled  lines  that  cares  bestow, 

But  Nature  still  serene  and  fair, 

No  thread  of  silver  in  her  hair, 

No  furrow'd  mark  on  brow  or  cheek, 

The  same  rich  dialect  shall  speak, 

With  silent  finger  upward  pointing, 

And  forehead  pure  with  Heaven's  anointing, 

And  smile  more  eloquent  than  speech, 

The  lessons  of  her  Sire  shall  teach. 


BIRTH-DAY  VERSES  TO  A  LITTLE  GIRL. 

I  do  bethink  me  of  a  feeble  babe, 

To  whom  the  gift  of  life  did  seem  a  toil 

It  trembled  to  take  up,  and  of  the  care 

That  tireless  nurtur'd  her  by  night  and  day, 

When  it  would  seem  as  if  the  fainting  breath 

Must  leave  her  bosom,  and  her  fair  blue  eye 

Sank  'neath  its  lids,  like  some  crushed  violet. 

— Six  winters  came,  and  now  that  self-same  babe 

Wins  with  her  needle,  the  apppointed  length 

Of  her  light  task,  and  learns  with  patient  zeal 

The  daily  lesson,  tracing  on  her  map 

All  climes  and  regions  of  the  peopled  earth. 

With  tiny  hand,  she  guides  the  writer's  quill, 

To  grave  those  lines  through  which  the  soul  doth  speak, 


MRS.    SIGOURNEy's    POEMS.  229 

And  pours  in  timid  tones,  the  hymn  at  eve. 
She  from  the  pictur'd  page,  doth  scan  the  tribes 
That  revel  in  the  air,  or  cleave  the  flood, 
Or  roam  the  wild,  delighting  much  to  know 
Their  various  natures,  and  their  habits  all, 
From  the  huge  elephant,  to  the  small  fly- 
That  liveth  but  a  day,  yet  in  that  day 
Is  happy,  and  outspmads  a  shining  wing, 
Exulting  in  the  mighty  Maker's  care. 
She  weeps  that  men  should  barb  the  monarch-whale, 
In  his  wild  ocean-home,  and  wound  the  dove, 
And  snare  the  pigeon,  hasting  to  its  nest 
To  feed  its  young,  and  hunt  the  flying  deer, 
And  find  a  pleasure  in  the  pain  he  gives. 
She  tells  the  sweetly  modulated  tale 
To  her  young  brother,  and  devoutly  cheers 
At  early  morning,  seated  on  his  knee 
Her  hoary  grandsire  from  the  Book  of  God, 
Who  meekly  happy  in  his  fourscore  years, 
Mourns  not  the  dimness  gathering  o'er  his  sight, 
But  with  a  saintly  kindness,  bows  him  down 
To  drink  from  her  young  lip,  the  lore  he  loves. 

Fond,  gentle  child,  who  like  a  flower  that  hastes 
To  burst  its  sheath,  hath  come  so  quickly  forth, 
A  sweet,  companion,  walking  by  my  side, — 
Thon,  whom  thy  father  loveth,  and  thy  friends 
Delight  to  praise,  lift  thy  young  heart  to  God, — 
That  whatsoa'er  doth  please  him  in  thy  life 
He  may  perfect,  and  by  his  Spirit's  power 
Remove  each  germ  of  evil,  that  thy  soul 
When  this  brief  discipline  of  time  is  o'er 
May  rise  to  praise  him  with  an  angel's  song. 
20 


230  MES«  sigourney's  poems. 


NATURE'S  BEAUTY. 

I  looked  on  Nature's  beauty,  and  it  came 

Like  a  blest  spirit  to  my  inmost  heart, 

And  darkness  fled  away.     The  fragrant  breeze 

Swept  o'er  me,  as  a  tale  of  other  times, 

Lifting  the  curtain  from  the  ancient  cells 

Of  early  memory.     The  young  vine  put  forth 

Her  quivering  tendrils,  while  the  patron  bough 

Lured  their  light  clasping  with  that  lore  which  leaves 

Do  whisper  to  each  other,  when  they  lean 

To  drink  the  music  of  the  summer-shower. 

There  was  a  sound  of  wings,  and  through  the  mesh 
Of  her  green-latticed  chamber,  stole  the  bird 
To  cheer  her  callow  young.     The  stream  flowed  on, 
And  on  its  lake-like  breast,  the  bending  trees 
Did  glass  themselves  with  such  serene  repose, 
That  their  still  haunt  seemed  holy.     The  spent  sun 
Turned  to  his  rest,  and  full  his  parting  ray 
To  mountain-top,  and  spire,  and  verdant  grove, 
And  burnished  casement,  and  reposing  nest, 
Spake  benediction.     And  the  vesper-strain 
Went  breathing  up  from  every  plant  and  flower. 
The  rose  did  fold  itself,  as  at  the  cry 
From  the  high  minaret,  "  to  prayer  !  to  prayer  /" 
The  Moslem  kneels  ;  and  the  half-sleeping  eye 
Of  the  young  violet,  looked  devoutly  forth, 
Like  the  meek  shepherd  from  his  cottage  door, 
When  the  clear  horn  doth  warn  the  Alpine  cliffs, 
To  praise  the  Lord.     And  then  the  queenly  Moon 


MBS.    SIGOURN'EY's    POEMS.  231 

Came  through  Heaven's  portal.     High  her  vestal  train 

Did  bear  their  brilliant  cressets  in  their  hands, 

Trembling  with  pride  and  pleasure.     Beauty  lay, 

Like  a  broad  mantle,  on  each  slumbering  dell, 

And  to  the  domes  that  peered  through  woven  shades, 

Gave  attic  grace.     But  on  one  roof,  the  eye 

Did  gaze  instinctively,  singling  it  out 

From  all  this  flood  of  loveliness,  as  turns 

The  mariner  to  some  fair  isle  of  rest, 

Calling  it  home.     I  love  to  see  thee  raise 

Thy  stainless  forehead  through  the  sheltering  elm, 

Sequestered  mansion.     Other  forms  than  those 

That  I  have  reared,  may  in  thy  nursery  play, 

Yet  ne'er  will  I  forget  thee.     Stranger-tones 

May  wake  the  echoes  of  thine  airy  halls, 

And  other  names  than  his,  whose  classic  taste 

Reared  thy  pure  columns,  and  thy  haunts  adorned, 

May  claim  thy  mastership  :  for  change  doth  write 

With  Protean  pencil,  on  all  things  that  man 

Would  call  his  own. 

It  is  not  meet  that  earth 
Or  aught  of  earthly  heritage,  assume 
Heaven's  feature  of  duration.     Yet  'tis  sweet, 
On  Nature's  beauteous  page,  to  read  of  God, 
And  I  would  bear  the  picture  in  my  heart 
Of  these  sweet  woods  and  waters,  summer-drest 
And  angel-voiced,  until  I  lay  me  down 
On  the  low  pillow  of  my  last  repose. 


232  MES-  sigourney's  poems. 


DEATH  OF  DR.  TODD,  THE  PRINCIPAL  OF  THE 
RETREAT  FOR  THE  INSANE,  IN  CONN. 

Few  have  been  mourned  like  thee.     The  wise  and  good 

Do  gather  many  weepers  round  their  tomb, 

And  true  Affection  makes  her  heart  an  urn 

For  the  departed  idol,  till  that  heart 

Is  ashes.     With  such  sorrow  art  thou  mourned, 

And  more  than  this.     There  is  a  cry  of  woe 

Within  the  halls  of  yon  majestic  dome — 

A  tide  of  grief,  which  Reason  may  not  check, 

Nor  Faith's  deep  anchor  fathom. 

Straining  eyes 
That  gaze  on  vacancy,  do  search  for  thee, 
Whose  wand  could  put  to  flight  the  fancied  ills 
Of  sick  imagination.     The  wrecked  heart 
Keepeth  the  echo  of  thy  soothing  voice 
An  everlasting  sigh  within  its  cells, 
And  morbidly  upon  that  music  feeds. 
Mind's  broken  column  'mid  its  ruins  bears 
Thy  chiselled  features.     Thy  dark  eye  looks  forth 
From  Memory's  watch-tower  on  the  phrenzy  dream, 
Ruling  its  imagery,  or  with  strange  power 
Controlling  madness,  as  the  shepherd's  harp 
Subdued  the  moody  wrath  of  Israel's  king. 
Even  where  the  links  of  thought  and  speech  are  broke, 
'Mid  that  most  absolute  and  perfect  wreck, 
When  throneless  Reason  flies  her  idiot-foe, 
Thou  hast  a  place.     The  fragments  of  the  soul 
Do  bear  thine  impress — shadowy,  yet  endeared, 


MRS.    SIGOURNEV'S  POEMS.  233 

And  multiplied  by  countless  miseries. 
Beside  some  happy  hearth,  where  fire-side  joys 
And  renovated  health,  and  heaven-born  hope 
Swell  high  in  contrast  with  the  maniac's  cell, 
Thou  art  remembered  by  some  grateful  heart, 
With  the  deep  rapture  of  that  lunatic, 
Whom  Jesus  healed. 

But  there's  a  wail  for  thee 
From  throngs  whom  this  unpitying  world  doth  cast 
Out  of  her  company,  the  scorned,  the  banned, 
The  excommunicate.     Thou  wert  their  friend — 
Thy  wasting  midnight  vigil  was  for  them  : 
The  toil,  the  watching,  and  the  stifled  pang 
That  stamped  thee  as  a  martyr,  were  for  them. 
They  could  not  thank  thee,  save  with  that  strange  shriek 
Which  wounds  the  gentle  ear.     Yet  thou  didst  walk 
In  thy  high  ministry  of  love  and  power, 
As  a  magician  'mid  their  spectre-foes 
And  burning  visions.     Thou  didst  mark  sublime 

Death's  angel  sweeping  o'er  thy  studious  page, 
And,  at  his  chill  monition,  laying  down 

The  boasted  treasures  of  philosophy 

Didst  clothe  thyself  in  meekness  as  a  child 

Waiting  the  father's  will. 

And  so  farewell, 

Thou  full  of  love  to  all  whom  God  hath  made, 

Thou  tuned  to  melody,  go  home  !  go  home  ! 

Where  music  hath  no  dissonance,  and  Love 

Doth  poise  forever  on  her  perfect  wing. 


20* 


234  MRS.    SIGOURNEY's   POEMS. 


LAFAYETTE. 


There  was  a  sound  of  war, 

A  spirit-stirring  shock, 
A  new-born  nation  strove  for  life, 
And  a  monarch  came  down  with  his  bannered  strife, 

As  the  lion  meets  the  flock. 

A  youthful  hero  crossed 

The  raging-  of  the  sea, 
The  blood  of  France  was  in  his  heart, 
And  it  glowed  as  it  took  that  infant's  part, 

Who  struggled  to  be  free. 

Years  sped  their  noiseless  flight, 

The  warriors  went  to  rest, 
And  the  full-grown  child  with  a  giant's  might, 
Went  forth  in  the  strength  of  his  lordly  right, 
And  watched  by  ocean's  billows  bright, 

For  the  coming  of  a  guest. 

And  the  shout  of  welcome  sped 

From  the  mountain  to  the  main, 
Fresh  flowers  of  gratitude  wreathed  a  crown, 
And  the  veteran's  tear  with  the  babe's  fell  down, 

Like  a  gush  of  summer  rain. 

The  idol-hero  came, 

Not  with  his  sword  of  might ; 
The  silver-hairs  on  his  brow  were  strown, 
And  the  eye  was  sunk,  that  like  lightning  shone, 

In  the  van  of  the  stormy  fight. 


MRS.    SIGOURNEV'S    POEMS.  235 

He  had  breathed  the  dung-eon  damps, 

He  had  drank  the  draught  of  fame, 
When  the  clime  of  his  birth  like  a  maniac  rushed, 
And  the  blood  of  kings  from  its  fountain  gushed, 

He  had  stood  at  his  post  the  same. 

By  Memory's  chart  he  sought 

For  dell,  and  rock,  and  stream, 
But  a  spell  of  mag-ic  had  fallen  around, 
And  cities  arose  where  the  forest  frowned, 
And  the  far,  lone  lake,  with  masts  was  crowned, 

Like  the  chang-e  of  a  fairy  dream. 

The  exulting-  pulse  beat  high, 

In  the  heart  of  this  western  zone, 
His  home  was  the  breast  of  the  free  and  brave, 
No  sceptred  king,  with  the  world  his  slave, 

E'er  sate  on  such  a  throne. 

But  there  came  a  solemn  knell, 

O'er  the  summer  breeze  it  stole, 
From  town,  and  tower,  and  village  bell 
On  our  listening  nation's  ear  it  fell, 

And  woke  the  mourner's  soul. 

The  hero  slept  in  dust, 

The  mighty  bore  his  pall, 
The  tears  of  love  on  his  tomb  were  shed, 
The  glory  of  earth  was  around  his  head, 
But  from  honor,  and  wealth,  and  bliss  he  fled 

To  the  highest  joy  of  all. 


236  MES-    SIGOUBNEY  S   POEMS. 


LAST  HOURS  OF  THE  HON.  WILLIAM  WIRT. 

See,  he  communeth  at  the  gate  of  heaven. 
Call  him  not  back. 

Detain  him  not  with  tears, 
Ye  loving  ones,  who  from  your  being's  dawn, 
Have  in  your  reverence  shrined  him,  next  to  God. 

He  drinks  the  cup  alone,  most  tender  wife, 
He,  who  so  long  hath  held  no  earthly  draught 
Of  woe,  or  happiness,  unshared  by  thee. 

He  drinks  the  cup  alone.     Thou  may'st  not  drain 
Its  bitter  dregs  for  him,  nor  fearless  place 
Thy  soul  in  his  soul's  stead,  as  fain  thou  would'st 
If  'twere  thy  Father's  will. 

Is  this  that  form, 
So  late  with  manhood's  majesty  replete  1 
Is  this  that  lofty  brow  from  whence  looked  forth 
The  ruling  mind. 

How,  like  the  flower  of  grass, 
Is  all  we  call  perfection !     How  doth  man 
Fall  from  his  glory,  if  one  baleful  breath 
But  stir  his  nerves,  or  check  the  refluent  tide 
That  visits  every  vein,  or  sweep  those  cells 
Unkindly,  where  his  lucid  thoughts  are  born  ! 
"  The  door  is  opened."     Hark,  it  is  the  last, 
Last  sound,  from  that  pale  lip.     What  scans  the  eye 
That  through  the  shroud  of  dim  disease  doth  dart 
Such  brightening  ray  ? 

Do  hovering  angels  show 
The  untold  riches  of  that  realm,  which  needs 


MBS.    SIGOUBNEy's   POEMS.  337 

Nor  sun  nor  moon  to  light  it  ]     Do  they  spread 

The  tokens  of  redeeming-  love  to  cheer 

The  heart  that  struggling  with  the  wreathed  bond 

Of  earth's  most  dear  and  sacred  charities, 

Doth  find  them  rooted  in  its  deepest  core  1 

"  The  door  is  opened." 

Enter  in,  thou  blest 
And  holy  soul.     'Twere  sin  to  bind  thee  here. 
The  proudest  flight  of  this  clay-compassed  thought, 
Boasting  itself  all  limitless,  dares  not 
To  follow  thee,  or  shadow  forth  thy  bliss, 

Farewell !  farewell !  thou  who  did'st  meekly  draw 
Thy  purest  treasures  from  the  Book  of  God, 
And  wear  them,  as  an  amulet,  to  shield 
Thy  breast  from  stain  ?     Still  shall  thy  country  grave 
Thy  name  upon  the  Urim  of  her  heart, 
Till  her  exulting  pulses  cease  to  beat 
O'er  the  true  greatness  of  her  gifted  sons. 


ON  READING  THE  DESCRIPTION  OF  POMPEII,  IN 
THE  "  REMAINS  OF  THE  REV.   E.  D.  GRIFFIN." 

11  In  the  garden  of  a  villa  was  found  the  skeleton  of  a  man,  carrying 
keys  in  one  hand  and  money  and  gold  ornaments  in  the  other.  Before 
entering  the  gate  of  the  city,  you  perceive  the  ruins  of  the  guard  house, 
in  which  was  found  the  skeleton  of  a  soldier,  with  lance  in  hand." 

Tour  in  Italy  and  Switzerland. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  day  of  God, 
And  silence  reigned  around.     The  waning  lamp 
Gleamed  heavily,  and  gathering  o'er  my  heart 
There  seemed  a  musing  sadness. 


238  MRS-  sigourney's  poems. 

Then  thou  cam'st, 
Ethereal  spirit !  on  thy  classic  wing, 
Bidding  me  follow  thee. 

And  so  I  sought 
The  ruined  cities  of  Italia's  plain, 
And  with  thee  o'er  Pompeii's  ashes  trod, 
Courting  the  friendship  of  a  buried  world. 

'Tis  fearful  to  behold  the  tide  of  life 
In  all  the  tossings  of  its  fervid  strength 
Thus  petrified,  and  every  painted  bark 
That  spread  its  gay  sail  o'er  the  rippling  surge 
Sealed  to  its  depths. 

Thou  haggard  skeleton, 
Clutching  with  bony  hand  thy  hoarded  gold, 
What  boots  it  thus  those  massy  keys  to  guard 
When  life's  frail  ker.fnms  in  its  ward  no  more  1 

Say  !  hadst  thou  naught  amidst  yon  wreck,  more  dear 
Than  that  encumbering  dross  1  no  priceless  wealth 
Of  sweet  affinity,  no  tender  claim, 
No  eager  turning  of  fond  eyes  to  thine, 
In  that  last  hour  of  dread  extremity  1 

Lo  !  yon  grim  soldier,  faithful  at  his  post, 
Bold  and  unblenching,  though  a  sea  of  fire 
Closed  o'er  him,  with  its  suffocating  wave. 
The  reeking  air  grew  hot,  the  blackened  heavens 
Shrank  like  a  shriveled  scroll,  and  mother  earth, 
Forgetful  of  her  love,  a  traitress  turned. 
Yet  still  he  fled  not ;  though  each  element 
Swerved  from  the  eternal  law,  he  firmly  stood, 
A  Roman  Sentinel. 

Thus  may  we  stand 
In  duty's  armor,  at  our  hour  of  doom, 


MBS.    SIQOURNEy's    POEMS.  239 

Though  on  the  climax  of  our  joy,  stern  Death 
Should  steal  unlooked  for,  as  the  lightning  flash 
Rendeth  the  summer-cloud. 

But  now,  adieu, 
My  sainted  guide.     The  midnight  hour  doth  warn 
Me  from  thy  cherished  pages,  though  methinks 
The  beauty  of  thy  presence  and  thy  voice, 
Whose  tones,  melodious,  charmed  a  listening  throng, 
Still  linger  near.     It  is  not  meet  for  us 
To  call  thee  brother,  we  who  dwell  in  clay, 
And  find  the  impress  of  the  earth  so  strong 
Upon  our  purest  gold. 

Spirit  of  bliss  ! 
Who  twin'st  thyself  around  the  living  heart 
By  holiest  memories,  my  prayer  this  night 
Shall  be  a  hymn  of  gratitude  for  thee. 


PARTING  HYMN  OF  MISSIONARIES  TO  BURMAH. 

Native  land  !  in  summer  smiling, 

Hill  and  valley,  grove  and  stream, 
Home  !  whose  nameless  charms  beguiling 

Peaceful  lull'd  our  infant  dream, 
Haunts  !  through  which  our  childhood  hasted, 

Where  the  earliest  wild-flowers  grew, 
Church  !  were  God's  free  grace  we  tasted, 

Gems  of  memory's  wealth, — adieu  ! 


240  MKS-  sigourney's  poems. 

Mother  !  who  hast  watched  our  pillow 

In  thy  tender,  sleepless  love, 
Lo,  we  dare  the  crested  billow, 

Mother !  put  thy  trust  above  ! 
Father  !  from  thy  guidance  turning 

O'er  the  deep  our  way  we  take, 
Keep  the  prayerful  incense  burning 

On  thine  altar,  for  our  sake. 

Brothers  !  Sisters  !  more  than  ever 

Seem  our  clinging  heart-strings  twin'd, 
As  that  hallow'd  bond  we  sever 

Which  the  hand  of  Nature  join'd. 
But  the  cry  of  pagan  anguish 

Thro'  our  inmost  hearts  doth  sound, 
Countless  souls  in  misery  languish, 

We  would  haste  to  heal  their  wound. 

Burmah  !  we  would  soothe  thy  weeping, 

Take  us  to  thy  sultry  breast, 
Where  thy  sainted  dust  is  sleeping, 

Let  us  share  a  kindred  rest. 
Friends  !  our  span  of  life  is  fleeting, 

Hark  !  the  harps  of  angels  swell, 
Think  of  that  eternal  meeting, 

Where  no  voice  shall  say  farewell. 


MRS.    SIGOURNEy's    POEMS.  £41 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  REV.  SAMUEL  GREEN 
OF  BOSTON. 

Who  weepeth,  when  the  weary  go  to  rest  1 

When  the  sick  ceaseth  from  his  bitter  sighing  7 

Who  mourneth  at  the  burial  of  the  just 

With  hopeless  woe,  the  Comforter  denying? 

Not  the  disciple  whom  his  Lord  made  free, 

For  whom  he  dar'd  the  grave,  and  won  the  victory. 

Who  count  it  evil,  when  affliction's  dart 

Hath  had  its  perfect  work  ? — when  sorrow's  rod 

Leaves  its  sore  smiting  1 — when  the  pure  in  heart 
Go  in  their  saintly  righteousness  to  God  1 

Not  they  who  walk  with  Wisdom's  heavenly  train, 

And  from  the  Book  of  Truth,  believe  that  "  Death  is  gain." 

Yet  there  is  weeping  when  a  good  man  faiis, 
When  a  lov'd  sire  the  cup  of  parting  drinks, 

When  a  true  watchman  faints  on  Zion's  walls, 
And  'mid  his  flock,  a  faithful  shepherd  sinks, — 

When  by  the  living  waters,  where  he  fed 

The  tender,  trusting  lambs,  he  slumbers  with  the  dead. 

For  tears  are  pearls,  by  griev'd  affection  shed, 

Drawn  from  her  deep,  deep  sea,  with  shuddering  pain, — 

Yet  Faith  may  string  them  on  a  silver  thread, 
And  wear  them,  till  an  angel's  wreath  she  gain, 

And  Piety  hath  in  her  bosom  kept, 

And  on  her  forehead  grav'd,  their  sanction  "  Jesus  wept."1 


21 


242  MBS.    SIGOURNEY's   POEMS. 


11  Peace  I  leave  with  you." — John  xiv,  27. 

"  Peace,"  was  the  song  the  Angels  sang", 

When  Jesus  sought  this  vale  of  tears, 
And  sweet  that  heavenly  prelude  rang, 

To  calm  the  watchful  shepherds'  fears, — 
"  War,"  is  the  word  that  man  hath  spoke, 

Convuls'd  by  passions  dark  and  dread, 
And  Pride  enforc'd  a  lawless  yoke 

Even  while  the  Gospel's  banner  spread. 

"  Peace"  was  the  prayer  the  Saviour  breathed 

When  from  our  world  his  steps  withdrew, 
The  gift  he  to  his  friends  bequeathed 

With  Calvary  and  the  Cross  in  view  : — 
Redeemer  !  with  adoring  love 

Our  spirits  take  thy  rich  bequest, 
The  watchword  of  the  host  above, 

The  passport  to  their  realm  of  rest. 


DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

We  had  a  Rose, — its  breast 

Was  bright  with  pearly  dew, 
Nor  blight,  nor  time  had  stain'd  the  flower, 
Yet  it  sank  away  from  its  cherish'd  bower, 

It  faded  where  it  grew. 


MRS.    BIGOUBNET'a    POIMS.  243 


We  had  a  Harp, — 'tis  gone, 

We  will  not  say  'tis  broken, — 
No — no, — its  tones  are  deep  and  high, 
Where  music  wraps  in  melody, 
Each  thought  by  angels  spoken. 


APPEAL  FOR   FEMALE    EDUCATION   IN    GREECE. 

Why  break'st  thou  thus,  the  tomb  of  ancient  night, 
Thou  blind  old  bard,  majestic  and  alone  ? 
Whose  sightless  eyes  have  fill'd  the  world  with  light, 
Such  light  as  fades  not  with  the  set  of  sun, 
Light  that  the  kindled  soul  doth  feed  upon, 
When  with  her  harp  she  soars  o'er  mortal  things, 
And  from  heaven's  gate  doth  win  some  echoed  tone, 
And  fit  it  deftly  to  her  raptur'd  strings, 
And  wake  the  sweet  response,  tho'  earth  with  discord  rings. 

And  lo  !  the  nurtur'd  in  the  Theban  bower, 
Impetuous  Pindar,  mad  with  tuneful  ire, 
Whose  hand  abrupt  could  rule  with  peerless  power 
The  linked  sweetness  of  the  Doric  lyre  ; 
He  too,  whom  History  graves  with  pen  of  fire 
First  on  her  chart, — the  eloquent,  the  mild, 
Down  at  whose  feet  she  sitteth  as  her  sire, 
Listing  his  legends  like  a  charmed  child, 
Clear  as  the  soul  of  truth,  yet  rob'd  in  fancy  wild. 


244  MRS.    SIGOUHNEY'S    POFM9. 

And  thou,  meek  martyr  to  the  hemlock  draught 
Whose  fearless  voice  for  truth  and  virtue  strove, 
Whose  stainless  life,  and  death  serene,  have  taught 
The  Christian  world  to  wonder  and  to  love, — 
Come  forth,  with  Plato,  to  thy  hallow'd  grove 
And  bring  that  golden  chain  by  Time  unriven, 
Which  round  this  pendent  universe  ye  wove, 
For  still  our  homage  to  your  lore  is  given, 
And  your  pure  wisdom  priz'd,  next  to  the  page  of  Heaven. 

Still  gathering  round,  high  shades  of  glorious  birth 
Do  throng  the  scene.     Hath  aught  disturb'd  their  rest  1 
Why  brings  Philosophy  her  idols  forth 
With  pensive  brow,  in  solemn  silence  drest  ? 
And  see  he  comes,  who  o'er  the  sophist's  crest 
Did  pour  the  simple  element  of  light, 
Reduce  the  complex  thought  to  reason's  test, 
And  stand  severe  in  intellectual  might, — 
Undazzled,  undeceiv'd,  the  peerless  Stagyrite. 

Those  demi-goJs  of  Greece  !     How  sad  they  rove 
Where  temple-crown'd,  the  Acropolis  aspires, 
Or  green  Hymeltus  rears  her  honied  grove, 
Or  glows  the  Parthenon  'neath  sunset  fires, 
Or  where  the  olive,  ere  its  prime,  expires 
By  Moslem  hatred  scath'd.     Methinks  they  seem 
Westward  to  gaze,  with  unreveal'd  desires, 
Whether  they  roam  by  pure  Uyssus'  stream, 
Or  haunt  with  troubled  step  the  shades  of  Academe. 

Seek  ye  the  West  ?— that  land  of  noteless  birth, 
That  when  proud  Athens  rul'd  with  regal  sway 
All  climes  and  kindreds  of  the  awe-struck  earth, 
Still  in  its  cold,  mysterious  cradle  lay, 


MRS.    SIGOUHNEY's    POEMS.  245 

Till  the  world-finder  rent  the  veil  away, 
And  caught  the  giant-foundling's  savage  tone, 
Turn  ye  to  us,  young  emmets  of  a  day, 
Who  flit  admiring  round  your  ancient  throne  ! 
Seek  ye  a  boon  of  us, — the  nameless,  the  unknown  1 

We,  who  have  blest  you  with  our  lisping  tongue, 
And  to  your  baptism  bow'd  when  life  was  new, 
And  when  upon  our  mother's  breast  we  hung 
Your  flowing  nectar  with  our  life-stream  drew, 
Who  dipp'd  our  young  feet  in  Castalian  dew, 
And  pois'd  with  tiny  arm  that  lance  and  shield, 
Before  whose  might  the  boastful  Persian  flew, 
We,  who  Ulysses  trac'd  o'er  flood  and  field, 
What  can  ye  ask  of  us,  we  would  not  joy  to  yield  ! 

Ye  ask  no  warrior's  aid, — the  Turk  hath  fled, 
And  on  your  throne  Bavaria's  prince  reclines, — 
No  gold  or  gems,  their  dazzling  light  to  shed, 
Pearl  from  the  sea,  nor  diamond  from  the  mines, — 
Ye  ask  that  ray  from  Learning's  lamp  which  shines, 
To  guide  your  sons,  so  long  in  error  blind, 
The  cry  speeds  forth  from  yon  embowering  vines, — 
"  Give  bread  and  water  to  the  famish'd  mind, 
And  from  its  durance  dark  the  imprison'd  soul  unbind." 

Behold  the  Apostle  of  the  Cross  sublime, 
The  warn'd  of  Heaven,  the  eloquent,  the  bold, 
Who  spake  to  Athens  in  her  hour  of  prime, 
Braving  the  thunders  of  Olympus  old, 
And  spreading  forth  the  Gospel's  snowy  fold, 
Where  heathen  altars  pour'd  a  crimson  tide, 
And  stern  tribunals  their  decrees  unroll'd, 
21* 


246  MKS.   SIGOURNEY's    POEMS. 

How  would  his  zeal  rebuke  our  ingrate  pride, 
If  ye  should  sue  to  us  and  coldly  be  denied. 

Explores  your  eagle-glance  that  weaker  band 
Who  bear  the  burdens  of  domestic  care  1 
Who  guide  the  distaff  with  a  patient  hand, 
And  trim  the  evening  hearth  with  cheerful  air  ? 
Point  ye  the  Attic  maid,  the  matron  fair, 
The  blooming-  child  devoid  of  letter'd  skill  3 
What  would  ye  ask  1     Wild  winds  the  answer  bear, 
In  blended  echoes  from  the  Aonian  hill, 
"  Give  them  the  book  of  God?"     Immortal  shades  ! — we  will. 


THE  WESTERN  EMIGRANT. 

An  ax  rang-  sharply  'mid  those  forest  shades 
Which  from  creation  toward  the  skies  had  tower'd 
In  unshorn  beauty. — There,  with  vigorous  arm 
Wrought  a  bold  Emigrant,  and  by  his  side 
His  litile  son,  with  question  and  response, 
Beguil'd  the  toil. 

"  Boy,  thou  hast  never  seen 
Such  glorious  trees.     Hark,  when  their  giant  trunks 
Fall,  how  the  firm  earth  groans.     Rememberest  thou 
The  mighty  river,  on  whose  breast  we  sail'd 
So  many  days,  on  toward  the  setting  sun  1 
Our  own  Connecticut,  compar'd  to  that, 
Was  but  a  creeping  stream." 

"  Father,  the  brook 
That  by  our  door  went  singing-,  where  I  launch'd 


MRS.    SIGOCBNEy's    POEMS.  247 

My  tiny  boat,  with  my  young  playmates  round 

When  school  was  o'er,  is  dearer  far  to  me, 

Than  all  these  bold,  broad  waters.     To  my  eye 

They  are  as  strangers.     And  those  little  trees 

My  mother  nurtur'd  in  the  garden  bound, 

Of  our  first  home,  from  whence  the  fragrant  peach 

Hung  in  its  ripening  gold,  were  fairer  sure 

Than  this  dark  forest,  shutting  out  the  day." 

— "  What,  ho  ! — my  little  girl,"  and  with  light  step 

A  fairy  creature  hasted  toward  her  sire, 

And  setting  down  the  basket  that  contain'd 

His  noon-repast,  look'd  upward  to  his  face 

With  sweet,  confiding  smile. 

"  See,  dearest,  see, 
That  bright-wing'd  paresquet,  and  hear  the  song 
Of  yon  gay  red-bird,  echoing  thro'  the  trees, 
Making  rich  music.     Didst  thou  ever  hear 
In  far  New-England,  such  a  mellow  tone  V 
— "  I  had  a  robin  that  did  take  the  crumbs 
Each  night  and  morning,  and  his  chirping  voice 
Did  make  me  joyful,  as  I  went  to  tend 
My  snow-drops.     I  was  always  laughing  then 
In  that  first  home.     I  should  be  happier  now 
Methinks,  if  I  could  find  among  these  dells 
The  same  fresh  violets." 

Slow  night  drew  on, 
And  round  the  rude  hut  of  the  Emigrant 
The  wrathful  spirit  of  the  rising  storm 
Spake  bitter  things.     His  weary  children  slept, 
And  he,  with  head  declin'd,  sat  listening  long 
To  the  swoln  waters  of  the  Illinois, 
Dashing  against  their  shores. 


248  mbs.  sigoubney's  poems. 

Starting  he  spake, — 
"  Wife  !  did  I  see  thee  brush  away  a  tear  ! 
'Twas  even  so.     Thy  heart  was  with  the  halls 
Of  thy  nativity.     Their  sparkling  lights, 
Carpets,  and  sofas,  and  admiring  guests, 
Befit  thee  better  than  these  rugged  walls 
Of  shapeless  logs,  and  this  lone,  hermit  home." 
"  No — no.     All  was  so  still  around,  methought 
Upon  mine  ear  that  echoed  hymn  did  steal, 
Which  'mid  the  Church  where  erst  we  paid  our  vows, 
So  tuneful  peal'd.     But  tenderly  thy  voice 
Dissolv'd  the  illusion." 

And  the  gentle  smile 
Lighting  her  brow,  the  fond  caress  that  sooth'd 
Her  waking  infant,  reassur'd  his  soul 
That  wheresoe'er  our  best  affections  dwell, 
And  strike  a  healthful  root,  is  happiness. 
Content,  and  placid,  to  his  rest  he  sank, 
But  dreams,  those  wild  magicians,  that  do  play 
Such  pranks  when  reason  slumbers,  tireless  wrought 
Their  will  with  him. 

Up  rose  the  thronging  mart 
Of  his  own  native  city, — roof  and  spire, 
All  glittering  bright,  in  fancy's  frost-work  ray. 
The  steed  his  boyhood  nurtur'd  proudly  neigh'd, 
The  favorite  dog  came  frisking  round  his  feet, 
With  shrill  and  joyous  bark, — familiar  doors 
Flew  open, — greeting  hands  with  his  were  link'd 
In  friendship's  grasp, — he  heard  the  keen  debate 
From  congregated  haunts,  where  mind  with  mind 
Doth  blend  and  brighten, — and  till  morning  rov'd 
'Mid  the  lov'd  scenery  of  his  native  land. 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS.  249 

FAREWELL  OF  THE  SOUL  TO  THE  BODY. 

Companion  dear  !  the  hour  draws  nigh, 

The  sentence  speeds, — to  die,  to  die. 

So  long  in  mystic  union  held, 

So  close  with  strong  embrace  compell'd, 

How  canst  thou  bear  the  dread  decree, 

That  strikes  thy  clasping  nerves  from  me  | 

— To  Him  who  on  this  mortal  shore, 

The  same  encircling  vestment  wore, 

To  Him  I  look,  to  Him  I  bend, 

To  Him  thy  shuddering  frame  commend. 

— If  I  have  ever  caus'd  thee  pain, 

The  throbbing  breast,  the  burning  brain, 

With  cares  and  vigils  turn'd  thee  pale, 

And  scorn'd  thee  when  thy  strength  did  fail, — 

Forgive  ! — Forgive  ! — thy  task  doth  cease, 

Friend  !   Lover  ! — let  us  part  in  peace. 

— That  thou  didst  sometimes  check  my  force, 

Or  trifling  stay  mine  upward  course, 

Or  lure  from  Heaven  my  wavering  trust, 

Or  bow  my  drooping  wing  to  dust, — 

I  blame  thee  not,  the  strife  is  done, 

I  know  thou  wert  the  weaker  one, 

The  vase  of  earth,  the  trembling  clod, 

Constraint  to  hold  the  breath  of  God. 

— Well  hast  thou  in  my  service  wrought, 

Thy  brow  hath  mirror'd  forth  my  thought, 

To  wear  my  smile  thy  lip  hath  glow'd, 

Thy  tear  to  speak  my  sorrows  flowed, 

Thine  ear  hath  borne  me  rich  supplies 

Of  sweetly  varied  melodies, 


250  MHS-  sigoueney's  poems. 

Thy  hands  my  prompted  deeds  have  done, 
Thy  feet  upon  mine  errands  run, — 
Yes,  thou  hast  mark'd  my  bidding-  well, 
Faithful  and  true  !  farewell,  farewell. 
— Go  to  thy  rest.     A  quiet  bed 
Meek  mother  Earth  with  flowers  shall  spread, 
Where  I  no  more  thy  sleep  may  break 
With  fever'd  dream,  nor  rudely  wake 
Thy  wearied  eye. 

Oh  quit  thy  hold, 
For  thou  art  faint,  and  chill,  and  cold, 
And  long  thy  gasp  and  groan  of  pain 
Have  bound  me  pitying  in  thy  chain, 
Tho'  angels  urge  me  hence  to  soar, 
Where  1  shall  share  thine  ills  no  more. 
— Yet  we  shall  meet.     To  soothe  thy  pain, 
Remember, — we  shall  meet  again. 
Quell  with  this  hope,  the  victor's  sting, 
And  keep  it  as  a  signet-ring, 
When  the  dire  worm  shall  pierce  thy  breast, 
And  nought  but  ashes  mark  thy  rest, 
When  stars  shall  fall,  and  skies  grow  dark, 
And  proud  suns  quench  their  glow-worm  spark, 
Keep  thou  that  hope,  to  light  thy  gloom, 
Till  the  last  trumpet  rends  the  tomb. 
— Then  shalt  thou  glorious  rise,  and  fair, 
Nor  spot,  nor  stain,  nor  wrinkle  bear, 
And  I,  with  hovering  wing  elate, 
The  bursting  of  thy  bonds  shall  wait, 
And  breathe  the  welcome  of  the  sky, — 
"  No  more  to  part,  no  more  to  die, 
Co-heir  of  Immortality." 


MRS.    SIGOUHNEY'S    POEMS.  251 


THE  GARDEN. 

"Gardens  have  been  the  scenes  of  the  three  most  stupendous  events 
that  have  occurred  on  earth  :— the  temptation  and  fall  of  man— the 
agony  of  the  Son  of  God — and  his  resurrection  from  the  grave." 

Notes  of  the  American  Editor  of  "  Kebb's  Christian  Year" 

Is't  not  a  holy  place,  thy  Garden's  bound, 

Peopled  with  plants  and  every  living  leaf 

Instinct  with  thought,  to  stir  the  musing  mind  ) 

— Where  was  it  that  our  Mother  wandering  went, 

When  'mid  her  nursling  vines  and  flowers,  she  met 

The  gliding  serpent,  in  his  green  and  gold, 

And  rashly  listen 'd  to  his  glozing  tongue, 

Till  loss  of  Eden  and  the  wrath  of  God 

Did  fade  from  her  remembrance  ?     Was  it  not 

A  garden,  where  this  deed  of  rashness  check'd 

The  stainless  blossom  of  a  world  unborn  ) 

— Still,  tread  with  trembling.     Hast  thou  nought  to  fear  1 

No  tempter  in  thy  path,  with  power  to  sow 

Thy  Paradise  with  thorns,  if  God  permit  ? 

So,  hold  thy  way  amid  the  sweets  of  earth 

With  cautious  step,  and  have  thy  trust  above  1 

— Is't  not  a  holy  place,  thy  Garden's  bound, 

When  at  the  cool  close  of  the  summer's  day 

Thou  lingerest  there,  indulging  sweet  discourse 

With  lips  belov'd  1     Then  speak  of  him  who  bare 

Upon  his  tortur'd  brow,  strange  dews  of  blood 

For  man's  redemption. 

Bring  the  thrilling  scene 
Home  to  thine  inmost  soul : — the  sufferer's  cry, 
"  Father  !  if  it  be  possible,  this  cup 
Take  thou  away. —  Yet  not  my  will  but  thine  :" 


252  MRS.   SIGOURNEY's   POEMS. 

The  sleeping  friends  who  could  not  watch  one  hour, 
The  torch,  the  flashing  sword,  the  traitor's  kiss, 
The  astonish'd  angel  with  the  tear  of  Heaven 
Upon  his  cheek,  still  striving  to  assuage 
Those  fearful  pangs  that  bow'd  the  Son  of  God 
Like  a  bruis'd  reed.     Thou  who  hast  power  to  look 
Thus  at  Gethsemane,  be  still !  be  still  ! 
What  are  thine  insect-woes  compared  to  his 
Who  agonizeth  there  1     Count  thy  brief  pains 
As  the  dust-atom  on  life's  chariot  wheels, 
And  in  a  Saviour's  grief  forget  them  all. 
— Is't  not  a  holy  place,  thy  Garden's  bound  1 
"  Look  to  the  Sepulchre  !"  said  they  of  Rome, 
"  And  set  a  seal  upon  it."     So,  the  guard 
Who  knew  that  sleep  was  death,  stood  with  fix'd  eye 
Watching  the  garden-tomb,  which  proudly  hid 
The  body  of  the  crucified. 

Whose  steps 
'Mid  the  ill-stifled  sob  of  woman's  grief 
Prevent  the  dawn  1     Yet  have  they  come  too  late, 
For  He  is  risen, — He  hath  burst  the  tomb, 
Whom  'twas  not  possible  for  Death  to  hold. 
Yea,  his  pierced  hand  did  cleave  the  heavens,  to  share 
That  resurrection,  which  the  "  slow  of  heart" 
Shrank  to  believe. 

Fain  would  I,  on  this  spot, 
So  holy,  ponder,  till  the  skies  grow  dark, 
And  sombre  evening  spreads  her  deepest  pall. 
— Come  to  my  heart,  thou  Wisdom  that  dost  grow 
In  tne  chill  coffin  of  the  shrouded  dead, 
Come  to  my  heart.     For  silver  hairs  may  spring 
Thick  o'er  the  temples,  yet  the  soul  fall  short 


MRS.    SIGOUENEY's   POEMS.  253 

Even  of  that  simple  rudiment,  which  dwells 
With  babes  in  Christ.     I  would  be  taught  of  thee, 
Severe  Instructor,  who  dost  make  thy  page 
Of  pulseless  breasts  and  unimpassion'd  brows, 
And  lips  that  yield  no  sound.     Thou  who  dost  wake 
Man  for  that  lesson,  which  he  reads  but  once, 
And  mak'st  thy  record  of  the  sullen  mounds 
That  mar  the  church-yard's  smoothness,  let  me  glean 
Wisdom  among  the  tombs,  for  I  would  learn 
Thy  deep,  unflattering  lore.     What  have  I  said  1 
No  !  not  of  thee,  but  of  the  hand  that  pluck'd 
The  sceptre  from  thee. 

Thou,  who  once  didst  taste 
Of  all  man's  sorrows,  save  the  guilt  of  sin, — 
Divine  Redeemer  !  teach  us  to  walk 
In  these  our  earthly  gardens,  as  to  gain 
Footing  at  last,  amid  the  trees  of  God, 
Which  by  the  Eternal  River  from  His  Throne 
Nourish'd,  shall  never  fade. 


DREAMS. 

"Knowest  thou  what  thou  art,  in  the  hour  of  sleep?    Who  is  the 
illuminator  of  the  soul?    Who  hath  seen,  who  knoweth  him  ?" 

Taliessin. 

Revere  thyself!  for  thou  art  wonderful 
Even  in  thy  passiveness.     Hail,  heir  of  Heaven  ! 
Immortal  mind !  that  when  the  body  sleeps 
Doth  roam  with  unseal'd  eye,  on  tireless  wing, 
Where  Memory  hath  no  chart,  and  Reason  finds 
22 


254  MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS. 

No  pole-star  for  her  compass.     Guest  divine  ! 
Our  earthly  nature  bows  itself  to  thee, 
Putting  its  ear  of  clay  unto  the  sigh 
Of  thy  disturbed  visions,  if  perchance 
It  win  some  whisper  of  thy  glorious  birth, 
And  deathless  heritage. 

Oh,  dreams  are  dear 
To  those  whom  waking  life  hath  surfeited 
With  dull  monotony.     'Tis  sweet  when  Day 
Hath  been  a  weariness,  and  Evening's  hand 
Like  some  lean  miser,  greedily  doth  clutch 
The  flowers  that  Morning  brought  us,  to  lie  down, 
And  breathe  a  fragrance  that  they  never  knew, 
Pressing  our  fingers  to  the  thornless  Rose, 
That  springs  where'er  we  tread. 

'Tis  very  sweet 
To  'scape  from  stern  Reality,  who  sits 
Like  some  starch  beldame,  all  precise  and  old, 
And  sheer  intolerant,  and  on  the  wing 
Of  radiant  Fancy,  soar  unblam'd  and  wild, 
And  limitless.     When  niggard  Fortune  makes 
Our  pillow  stony,  like  the  patriarch's  bed 
Who  slept  at  Bethel,  gentle  dreams  do  plant 
An  airy  ladder  for  the  angels'  feet, 
Changing  our  hard  couch  for  the  gate  of  Heaven. 
They  feed  us  on  ambrosia,  till  we  loath 
Our  household  bread. 

To  traverse  all  untir'd 
Broad  realms,  more  bright  than  fabled  Araby, 
To  hear  unearthly  music,  to  plunge  deep 
In  seas  of  bliss,  to  make  the  tyrant-grave 
Unlock  its  treasure-valve,  and  yield  the  forma 


MES.   SIGOUBNEY'S    POEMS.  255 

Whose  loss  we  wept,  back  to  our  glad  embrace, 

To  wear  the  tomb's  white  drapery,  yet  to  live, 

And  hold  unshrinking  pastime  with  the  dead, 

To  catch  clear  glimpses  of  fair  streets  of  gold, 

Aud  harpers  harping  on  the  eternal  bills, 

These  are  the  gifts  of  dreams,  and  we  would  speak 

Most  reverently  of  their  high  ministry. 

— See,  life  is  but  a  dream.     Awake  !  Awake ! 

Break  off  the  trance  of  vanity,  and  look 

With  keen,  undazzled  eye,  above  the  cloud 

That  canopies  man's  hopes.     Yea  !  hear  the  voice 

Of  Deity,  that  'mid  his  hour  of  sleep, 

In  the  still  baptism  of  his  dewy  dreams, 

Doth  bear  such  witness  of  the  undying  soul 

As  breath'd  o'er  Jordan's  wave,  "  Behold  my  Son!" 


THE  GRAVE  OF  THE  QUEEN  OF  PRUSSIA. 

"In  the  garden  of  Charlottenburg,  I  came  suddenly  among  trees, 
upon  a  fair  white  Doric  temple.  I  should  have  deemed  it  a  mere 
adornment  of  the  grounds,  a  spot  sacred  to  silence,  or  to  the  soft- 
breathed  song,  but  the  cypress  and  willow  declared  it  a  habitation  of 
the  dead.  Upon  a  sarcophagus  of  while  marble,  lay  a  sheet,  and  the 
outline  of  a  human  form,  was  plainly  visible  beneath  its  folds.  It  was 
reverently  turned  back,  and  displayed  the  statue  of  the  Queen  of  Prus- 
sia. It  is  said  to  be  a  perfect  resemblance, — not  as  in  death, — but 
when  she  lived,  to  bless  and  to  be  blessed.  She  seems  scarcely  to  sleep  ; 
the  mind  and  heart  are  on  her  sweet  lips.  Here  the  king  often  comes 
and  passes  long  hours  alone  ;  here  too,  he  brings  her  children,  to  offer 
garlands  at  her  grave." — Notes  during  a  Ramble  in  Germany. 


Who  slumbereth  'neath  yon  Doric  fane, 
Within  that  garden's  shade  ? 

Her  brow  upon  its  pillow  white 
In  careless  languor  laid! 


256  MES«    SIGOUBNEV'S   POEMS. 

While  fragrant  summer's  laden  gale 
And  fall  of  murmuring  stream, 

With  Nature's  holiest  hush,  conspire 
To  lull  the  lingering  dream. 

But  wherefore,  do  those  clasping  hands 

Repose  so  still  and  meek  1 
Nor  breath  disturb  the  tress  that  lies 

Thus  lightly  on  her  cheek  1 
And  wherefore,  on  those  parted  lips 

Doth  that  rich  music  sleep 
Which  mov'd  Affection's  bounding  pulse 

To  rapture  strong  and  deep  1 

Ah  ! — lift  not  thus  the  drapery's  fold  ! 

I  see  what  death  has  wrought, 
Who  proudly  to  his  bridal-couch 

This  royal  victim  brought ; 
Yet  spar'd  her  tender  form  to  rend 

From  this  embowering  shade, 
And  where  she  most  had  joy'd  to  roam, 

Her  last  long  mansion  made. 

And  here,  the  Father  of  his  realm 

With  lonely  step  doth  steal, 
And  take  that  sorrow  to  his  heart, 

Which  lowliest  mourners  feel, 
Here  too,  his  princely  offspring  bring 

Affection's  woven  flowers, 
And  keep  the  mother's  memory  fresh, 

Who  charm'd  their  cradle-hours. 

Farewell,  thou  beautiful  and  blest, 
Whose  sceptred  hand  did  bind 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS.  257 

Each  clustering  virtue  round  thy  throne 

That  glads  the  simple  hind ; 
For  sometimes  hath  a  queenly  crown 

Been  as  the  Upas-tree, 
To  the  pure  bosom's  healthful  plants, 

It  was  not  thus  with  thee. 

Yet  pangs  were  thine,  that  speechless  woe 

Which  patriot  virtue  feels, 
When  o'er  the  country  of  its  love, 

The  oppressor's  footstep  steals, 
Yes,  he  whose  eagle-pinion  sought 

The  subject  world  to  shame, 
Did  stoop  to  wound  thy  noble  breast, 

And  basely  mar  his  fame. 

But  tearless  from  Helena's  rock 

His  tortur'd  spirit  fled, 
Hence,  vengeful  thoughts  !  ye  may  not  dwell 

So  near  the  sacred  dead  : 
Rest,  Prussia's  Queen  !  a  nation's  grief 

Flows  forth  in  fountains  free, 
A  nation's  love,  thy  couch  doth  guard, 

Sleep  on,  'tis  well  with  thee. 


THE  MUFFLED  KNOCKER. 

Grief  !  Grief!  'tis  thy  symbol,  so  mute  and  drear, 
Yet  it  hath  a  tale  for  the  listening  ear, 
Of  the  nurse's  care,  and  the  curtain'd  bed, 
And  the  baffled  healer's  cautious  tread, 
22* 


258  MRS.    SIGOURNEY's   POEMS. 

And  the  midnight  lamp,  with  its  flickering  light, 
Half  screen'd  from  the  restless  sufferer's  sight, 
Yes,  many  a  sable  scene  of  woe, 
Doth  that  muffled  knocker's  tablet  show. 

Pain  !  Pain  !  art  thou  wrestling  here  with  man  ; 
For  the  broken  gold  of  his  wasted  span, 
Art  thou  straining  thy  rack  on  his  tortur'd  nerve, 
Till  his  firmest  hopes  from  their  anchor  swerve  ? 
Till  burning  tears  from  his  eyeballs  flow, 
And  his  manhood  faints  in  a  shriek  of  woe  1 
Methinks,  thy  scorpion-sting  I  trace, 
Through  the  mist  of  that  sullen  knocker's  face. 

Death  !  Death !  do  I  see  thee  with  weapon  dread  ! 

Art  thou  laying  thy  hand  on  yon  cradle-bed  ! 

The  Mother  is  there,  with  her  sleepless  eye, 

To  dispute  each  step  of  thy  victory, 

She  doth  fold  the  child  in  her  soul's  embrace, 

Her  prayer  is  to  die  in  her  idol's  place, 

She  hath  bared  her  breast  to  thine  arrow's  sway, 

But  thou  wilt  not  be  brib'd  from  that  babe  away. 

Earth  !  Earth  !  thou  hast  stamp'd  on  thy  scroll  of  bliss, 

The  faithless  seal  of  a  traitor's  kiss, 

Where  the  bridal  lamp  shone  clear  and  bright, 

And  the  foot  thro'  the  maze  of  the  dance  was  light, 

Thou  biddest  the  black-rob'd  weeper  kneel, 

And  the  heavy  hearse  roll  its  lumbering  wheel  ; 

And  still  to  the  heart  that  will  heed  its  lore, 

Doth  Wisdom  speak,  from  the  muffled  door. 


MBS.   SIG0URNE\'s  POEMS.  259 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  MOTHERLESS. 

11  The  little  boy  turned  for  the  last  time,  his  mild,  tender  glance  on 
those  around,  and  seemed  to  say,  '  Father,  she  calls !  I  go.  I  go. 
Farewell."' 

"  Who  calls  thee  1  who  1  my  darling  boy, 

What  voice  is  in  thine  ear  ?" 
He  answer'd  not,  but  murmur'd  on, 

In  words  that  none  might  hear ; 
And  still  prolonged  the  whispering  tone, 

As  if  in  fond  reply 
To  some  dear  object  of  delight 

That  fix'd  his  dying  eye. 

And  then,  with  that  confiding  smile, 

First  by  his  mother  taught 
When  freely  on  her  breast  he  lai  d 

His  troubled  infant  thought, 
And  meekly  as  a  placid  flower 

O'er  which  the  dew-drops  weep, 
He  bow'd  him  on  his  painful  bed, 

And  slept  the  unbroken  sleep. 

But  if  in  yon  immortal  clime, 

Where  flows  no  parting  tear, 
That  root  of  earthly  love  may  grow, 

Which  struck  so  deeply  here, 
With  what  a  tide  of  boundless  bliss, 

A  thrill  of  rapture  wild, 
An  angel  mother  in  the  skies, 

Will  greet  her  cherub  child. 


260  MRS.  sigourney's  poems. 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  MISS  HANNAH  MORE,  FROM 
BARLEY  WOOD,  APRIL  18,  1828,  AT  THE  AGE 
OF  EIGHTY-THREE. 

It  was  a  lovely  scene, 
That  cottage  'mid  the  trees, 
And  peerless  England's  shaven  green, 

Peep'd,  their  interstices  between, 
While  in  each  sweet  recess,  and  grotto  wild, 
Nature  conversed  with  Art,  or  on  her  labors  smil'd. 

It  seem'd  a  parting  hour, 
And  she  whose  hand  had  made 
That  spot  so  beautiful  with  woven  shade 

And  aromatic  shrub  and  flower, 
Turns  her  from  those  haunts  away, 
Tho'  spring  relumes  each  charm  and  fondly  woos  her  stay. 

Yon  mansion  teems  with  legends  for  the  heart : 
There  her  lov'd  sisters  circled  round  her  side, 
To  share  in  all  her  toils  a  part, 
There  too,  with  gentle  sigh 
Each  laid  her  down  to  die  : 
Yet  still,  methinks,  their  beckoning  phantoms  glide, 
Twining  with  tenderest  ties 
Of  hoarded  memories, 
Green  bower  and  quiet  walk  and  vine-wreath'd  spot : 
Hark  !  where  the  cypress  waves 
Above  their  peaceful  graves, 
Seems  not  some  echo  on  the  gale  to  rise  1 
"  Oh,  sister,  leave  us  not !" 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY's  POEMS.  261 

Her  lingering-  footsteps  stays 
Upon  that  threshold  stone, 
And  o'er  the  pictur'd  wall,  her  farewell  gaze 
Rests  on  the  portraits  one  by  one, 
Of  treasur'd  friends,  before  her  gone, 
To  that  bright  world  of  bliss,  where  partings  are  unknown. 

The  wintry  snows 
That  fourscore  years  disclose, 
When  slow  to  life's  last  verge,  Time's  lonely  chariot  goes, 
Are  on  her  temples  and  her  features  meek 

Subdued  and  silent  sorrow  speak, 
Yet  still  her  arm  in  cheerful  trust  doth  lean 
On  faithful  friendship's  prop, — that  changeless  evergreen. 

Like  Eve,  from  Paradise,  she  goes, 
Yet  not  by  guilt  involv'cKn  woes. 
Nor  driven  by  angel  bands, 
The  flaming  sword  is  planted  at  her  gate, 

By  menial  hands  : 
Yes,  those  who  at  her  table  freely  fed, 
Despise  the  giver  of  their  daily  bread, 
And  from  ingratitude  and  hate 
The  wounded  patron  fled. 

Think  not  the  pang  was  slight, 
That  thus  within  her  uncomplaining  breast 

She  cover'd  from  the  light  : 
Though  Knowledge  o'er  her  mind  had  pour'd, 

The  full,  imperishable  hoard, 
Tho'  Virtue,  such  as  dwells  among  the  blest, 
Came  nightly,  on  Reflection's  wing  to  soothe  her  soul  to  rest, 


262  MRS.    SIGOURNEy's   POEMS. 

Tho'  Fame  to  farthest  earth  her  name  had  borne, 
These  brought  no  shield  against  the  envious  thorn 

Deem  not  the  envenom'd  dart 
Invulnerable  found  her  thrilling-  woman's  heart. 

Man's  home  is  every  where.     On  Ocean's  flood, 
Where  the  strong  ship  with  storm-defying  tether 
Doth  link  in  stormy  brotherhood 
Earth's  utmost  zones  together, 
Where'er  the  red  gold  glows,  the  spice-trees  wave, 
Where  the  rich  diamond  ripens,  'mid  the  flame 
Of  vertic  suns  that  ope  the  stranger's  grave, 
He,  with  bronz'd  cheek  and  daring  step  doth  rove  ; 

He  with  short  pang  and  slight 
Doth  turn  him  from  the  chequer'd  light 
Of  the  fair  moon  thro'  his  own  forests  dancing, 
Where  music,  joy  and  love 

Were  his  young  hours  entracing ; 
And  where  Ambition's  thunder-claim 
Points  out  his  lot, 
Or  fitful  Wealth  allures  to  roam, 
There,  doth  he  make  his  home, 
And  still  repineth  not. 

It  is  not  thus  with  Woman.     The  far  halls 

Though  ruinous  and  lone, 
Where  first  her  pleased  ear  drank  a  nursing-mother's  tone, 

The  humble  walls 
Of  that  small  garden  where  her  childhood  sported  free, 
Affection,  with  unfading  tint  recalls, 
And  every  flower  hath  in  its  cup  a  bee, 
Making  fresh  honey  of  remember'd  things, 
The  flowers  without  a  thorn,  the  bees  bereft  of  stings. 


MRS.  SIGOURNEv's  POEMS.  263 

The  home,  where  erst  with  buoyant  tread 
She  met  the  lov'd,  the  lost,  the  dead, 
The  household  voices  blended  still 
With  the  story-telling  rill, 
The  valley,  where  with  playmates  true 
She  cull'd  the  strawberry  wet  with  dew, 
The  bower  where  Love  her  youthful  footsteps  led, 
The  sacred  hearth-stone  where  her  children  grew, 

The  soil  where  she  hath  cast 
The  flower-seeds  of  her  hope  and  seen  them  bide  the  blast, 
These  are  her  soul's  deep  friends, 
O'er  whom  in  lone  idolatry  she  bends, 
And  at  the  parting  sound 
The  heart's  adhesive  tendril  shrinking  sends 
As  from  some  shuddering  wound 
Fresh  drops  of  blood,  that  gushing  stir 
Unutter'd  pangs,  and  ask  an  Angel-comforter. 


THE  JEWS. 

Zion,  thy  symbols  fade, 

Cast  thy  dim  types  away, 
Come  forth  from  ancient  Error's  shade, 

And  hail  Messiah's  day. 

Why  haunt  with  shuddering  dread 

Red  Sinai's  penal  flame ! 
When  Calvary  lifts  a  peaceful  head, 

And  breathes  an  angels's  claim. 


264  MRS-    SIGOUENEY  S   POEMS. 

The  Prophets  are  thy  care, 
The  Law  is  at  thy  breast, 

The  Gospel  take  with  grateful  prayer, 
And  Christ  shall  give  thee  rest. 

No  more  his  love  withstand, 
No  more  his  spirit  grieve, 

Thrust  in  his  wounded  side  thy  hand, 
And  tremble  and  believe. 


FOREIGN  MISSIONS. 

Up,  at  the  Gospel's  glorious  call ! 

Country  and  kindred  what  are  they  ? 
Rend  from  thy  heart,  these  charmers,  all, 

Christ  needs  thy  service,  hence  away. 

Tho'  free  the  parting  tear  may  rise, 

Tho'  high  may  roll  the  boisterous  wave, 

Go,  find  thy  home  'neath  foreign  skies, 
And  shroud  thee  in  a  stranger's  grave. 

Perchance,  the  Hindoo's  languid  child, 
The  infant  at  the  Burman's  knee, 

The  shiverer  in  the  arctic  wild, 

Shall  bless  the  Eternal  Sire  for  thee. 

And  what  hath  Earth  compar'd  to  this  1 
Knows  she  of  wealth  or  joy  like  thine  ! 

The  ransom'd  heathens'  heavenly  bliss, 
The  plaudit  of  the  Judge  divine  ! 


MBS.    SiGOUfiNEY's    POEMS.  265 


SEAMEN. 


They  roam  where  danger  dwells, 

Where  blasts  impetuous  sweep, 
Where  sleep  the  dead  in  watery  cells 

Beneath  the  faithless  deep, 
Where  tempests  threaten  loud 

To  whelm  the  shipwreck'd  form  ; 
Show  them  a  sky  that  hath  no  cloud, 

A  port  above  the  storm. 

Beyond  the  Sabbatli-bel], 

Beyond  the  house  of  prayer, 
Where  deafening  surges  madly  swell 

Their  trackless  course  they  dare  ; 
Give  them  the  Book  Divine, 

That  full  and  perfect  chart, 
That  beacon  'mid  the  foaming  brine, 

That  pilot  of  the  heart. 

Where  guilt  with  aspect  bold, 

And  fierce  temptations  reign, 
Their  wild  and  unwarn'd  course  they  hold 

Amid  a  heathen  train, 
Give  them  the  Gospel's  power, 

Like  pole-star  o'er  the  sea, 
That  when  life's  fleeting  voyage  is  o'er 

Heaven  may  their  haven  be. 
23 


2(36  Mas-  sigourney's  poems. 

CRY  OF  THE  CORANNAS. 


"Missionaries  are  going  far  beyond  us, — but  they  come  not  to  us. 
We  have  been  promised  a  Missionary,  but  can  get  none.  God  has 
given  us  plenty  of  corn,  but  we  are  perishing  for  want  of  instruction. 
Our  people  are  dying  every  day.  We  have  heard  there  is  another  life 
after  death,  but  we  know  nothing  of  it." 


We  see  our  infants  fade.     The  mother  clasps 
The  enfeebled  form,  and  watches  night  and  day- 
Its  speechless  agony,  with  tears  and  cries, 
But  there's  a  hand  more  strong  than  her  despair 
That  rends  it  from  her  bosom.     Our  young  men 
Are  bold  and  full  of  strength,  but  something  comes 
We  know  not  what,  and  so  they  droop  and  die. 
Those  whom  we  lov'd  so  much,  our  gentler  friends, 
Who  bless  our  homes,  we  gaze  and  they  are  gone. 
Our  mighty  chiefs,  who  in  the  battle's  rage 
Tower'd  up  like  Gods,  so  fearless,  and  return'd 
So  loftily,  behold  !  they  pine  away 
Like  a  pale  girl,  and  so,  we  lay  them  down 
With  the  forgotten  throng  who  dwell  in  dust. 
They  call  it  death,  and  we  have  faintly  heard 
By  a  far  echo  o'er  the  distant  sea 
There  was  a  life  beyond  it.     Is  it  so  ? 
If  there  be  aught  above  this  mouldering  mound 
Where  we  do  leave  our  friends, — if  there  be  hope 
So  passing  strange,  that  they  should  rise  again 
And  we  should  see  them,  we  who  mourn  them  now, 
We  pray  you  speak  such  glorious  tidings  forth 
In  our  benighted  clime.     Ye  heaven-spread  sails 
Pass  us  not  by  !     Men  of  the  living  God  ! 
Upon  our  mountain  heights  we  stand  and  shout 


MBS.    SIGOURNEV'S   POEMS.  267 

To  you  in  our  distress.     Fain  would  we  hear 
Your  wondrous  message  fully,  that  our  hearts 
May  hail  its  certainty  before  we  go, 
Ourselves  to  those  dark  caverns  of  the  dead, 
Where  everlasting  silence  seems  to  reign. 


ANACHARSIS,  THE  PHILOSOPHER. 

From  Scythia's  wilds,  the  Sage  to  Athens  came, 

In  search  of  wisdom,  not  allur'd  by  fame, 

But  there,  his  uncouth  mien  provok'd,  the  proud, 

And  mov'd  the  laughter  of  a  thoughtless  crowd, 

Who  saw  not  through  a  veil  so  coarsely  wove, 

An  upright  soul,  that  heaven  itself  might  love. 

— "  Think  ye  I  draw  no  glory  from  my  birth, 

My  simple  manners,  and  my  native  earth  1 

Yet  say  what  honor  can  your  country  claim, 

From  sons  unworthy  of  her  ancient  name  ? 

Say,  which  is  best,  to  shine  with  borrow'd  rays, 

Or  rear  that  column  which  the  world  shall  praise." 

— A  scroll  from  Lydia's  king, — "  Come,  nobly  wise  ! 

Thou  whom  the  triflers  of  the  age  despise, 

Come  !  view  my  riches  and  my  royal  train, 

Nor  count  the  labor  of  thy  journey  vain  ; 

Not  now  I  boast  my  gifts,  but  thou  shalt  find 

The  monarch  Crcesus  of  no  niggard  mind  ; 

Come,  Scythian  sage  !  and  be  content  to  bring 

Unportion'd  wisdom,  to  a  judging  king." 

— Then  spake  the  man,  who  scorn'd  the  charms  of  gold, 

With  soul  indignant  and  in  language  bold, 


2Q&  mbs.  sigourney's  poems. 

— "  Think'st  thou  I  wander'd  from  my  Scythian  home 

For  glittering  dust,  or  polish'd  stones  to  roam? 

I  sought  the  gem  of  wisdom  where  it  shines, 

Witli  gather'd  brightness  in  the  Grecian  mines. 

Happy,  might  I  such  sacred  prize  attain, 

And  reach  in  peace  my  lowly  roof  again, 

And  yet  preserve  in  purity  re-fin'd 

The  chrystal  treasure  of  a  virtuous  mind." 


HARVEST  HYMN. 

This  is  the  season,  God  of  Grace, 

When  man's  full  heart  doth  turn  to  Thee, 

For  now  his  eye  can  clearest  trace 
Thy  hand  on  vale  and  field  and  tree. 

With  hope  he  casts  to  earth  the  grain, 
-When  spring  awakes  the  snow-drop  cold, 

With  joy  beholds  bright  Summer's  rain 
And  genial  sun  the  germ  unfo]d  ; 

Yet  fear  will  oft  his  breast  pervade 
Even  while  he  views  the  fertile  soil 

Lest  storms  destroy  the  tender  blade 
And  crush  the  promise  of  his  toil : 

But  when  blest  Autumn's  care  displays 
His  garners  with  their  stores  replete, 

Then  hope  is  lost  in  strains  of  praise, 
And  fear  in  gratulations  sweet. 


MRS.    SIGOURNEy's    POEMS.  269 


Oh,  may  we  ne'er  by  Famine  dread 
Be  taught  these  annual  gifts  to  prize, 

But  be  to  grateful  duty  led 
By  all  the  bounty  of  the  skies. 


"THE  DEAD  PRAISE  NOT  THE  LORD." 

David. 
Deep  dwellers  in  those  cells  profound 

Where  dreamless  s'umbers  reign, 
No  lingering  sigh,  nor  grateful  sound 

Bursts  from  your  drear  domain. 

But  ye,  upon  whose  unseal'd  eye 

Creation's  glory  breaks, 
When  morning  opes  the  purple  sky, 

Or  Eve  her  sceptre  takes, 

Ye  to  whose  ear  a  thrilling  strain 

Of  harmony  doth  rise, 
From  warbling  grove  and  wind-swept  main 

While  Echo's  voice  replies, 

Whose  buoyant  footsteps  wander  o'er 

Gay  Summer's  blooming  fields, 
Whose  free  hands  pluck  the  golden  store 

That  lavish  Autumn  yields, 

Oh  !  praise  the  Author  of  your  breath, 

The  Giver  of  your  joy, 
Until  the  icy  hand  of  death 

Time's  fragile  harp  destroy — 
23* 


270  MRS.    SIG0URN£Y'S  POEMS. 

Till  rising  where  immortal  lyres 
Shall  to  your  hand  be  given, 

Ye  find  that  ye  on  earth  have  learn'd 
The  melody  of  Heaven. 


MORAVIAN  MISSIONS  TO  GREENLAND. 

Why  steers  yon  bold  adventurous  prow 

On  toward  the  arctick  zone, 
Defying  blasts  that  rudely  seal 

To  Ocean's  breast  like  stone  1 
Why  dare  her  crew  those  fearful  seas 

Where  icy  mountains  dash, 
And  make  the  proudest  ship  a  wreck 

With  one  tremendous  crash  1 

They  come,  who  seek  the  spirit's  gold, 

Th'jy  dare  yon  dreary  sphere, 
And  winter  startles  on  his  throne, 

Their  strain  of  praisa  to  hsar  : 
They  come,  Salvation's  lamp  to  light 

Where  frost  and  darkness  reign, 
And  with  a  deathless  joy  to  cheer 

The  sons  of  want  and  pain. 

And  lo  !  the  chapel  rears  its  head 

Beneath  those  stranger-skies, 
And  to  the  sweet-ton'd  Sabbath-bell 

The  thick-ribb'd  ice  replies. 


MRS.    SIGOTTCNEV'S   POEMS.  271 

The  unletter'd  Esquimaux  doth  pluck 

The  victory  from  the  tomb, 
And  grateful  seek  that  glorious  clime 

Where  flowers  forever  bloom. 

When  the  last  tinge  of  green  departs, 

The  last  bird  takes  its  flight, 
And  the  far  sun  no  beam  bestows 

On  that  long  polar  night, 
When  in  her  subterranean  cell 

To  shun  the  tempest's  ire, 
Life  shrinking  guards  her  pallid  flame 

That  feebly  lifts  its  spire. 

The  teachers  of  a  love  divine, 

That  firm,  devoted  band, 
With  no  weak  sigh  of  fond  regret 

Recall  their  father-land, 
The  unchanging  smile  that  lights  their  brow, 

While  storms  of  Winter  roar, 
Doth  better  prove  their  heaven-born  Faith 

Than  Learning's  loftiest  lore. 


272  MBS-    SIGOURNEy's    POEMS. 


FUNERAL  AT   SEA. 


"  Yesterday,  a  child  died  in  the  ship.  To-day,  I  read  the  English 
burial-service, — and  commuted  its  body  to  the  mighty  deep,  until  the 
day  when  the  grave  and  sea  shall  give  up  their  dead.  The  mother  lay 
in  tears  in  her  berth, — the  father  could  scarce  repress  his  anguish,  and 
I  felt  the  agony  of  their  gnef,  as  I  pronounced  the  solemn  words,  that 
accompanied  the  body  to  the  pathless  deep." 

Journal  of  the  late  Rev.  Henry  B.  McLellan. 

The  deep  sea  took  the  dead.     It  was  a  babe 

Like  sculptur'd  marble,  pure  and  beautiful 

That  lonely  to  its  yawning  gulphs  went  down. 

— Poor  cradled  nursling, — no  fond  arm  was  there 

To  wrap  thee  in  its  folds  ;  no  lullaby 

Came  from  the  green  sea-monster,  as  he  laid 

His  shapeless  head  thy  polished  brow  beside, 

One  moment  wondering  at  the  beauteous  spoil 

On  which  he  fed.     Old  Ocean  heeded  not 

This  added  unit  to  his  myriad  dead. 

But  in  the  bosom  of  the  tossing  ship 

Rose  up  a  burst  of  anguish,  wild  and  loud, 

From  the  vex'd  fountain  of  a  mother's  love. 

—The  lost !  The  lost !     Oft  shall  her  startled  dream, 

Catch  the  drear  echo  of  the  sullen  plunge 

That  whelm'd  the  uncoffin'd  body, — oft  her  eye 

Strain  wide  through  midnight's  long  unsi umbering  watch, 

Remembering  how  his  soft  sweet  breathing  seem'd 

Like  measur'd  music  in  a  lily's  cup, 

And  how  his  tiny  shout  of  rapture  swelled, 

When  closer  to  her  bosom's  core,  she  drew 

His  eager  lip. 

Who  thus,  with  folded  arms, 
And  head  declin'd  doth  seem  to  count  the  waves, 


MBS.    SIGOURNEY'S    POEMS.  273 

And  yet  to  heed  them  not !     The  sorrowing"  sire, 
Doth  mark  the  last,  faint  ripple,  where  his  child 
Sank  down  into  the  waters.     Busy  thought 
Turns  to  his  far  home,  and  those  little  ones, 
Whom  sporting  'mid  their  favorite  lawn  he  left, 
And  troubled  fancy  shows  the  weeping  there, 
When  he  shall  seat  them  once  more  on  his  knee. 
And  tell  them  how  the  baby  that  they  lov'd, 
Hid  its  pale  cheek  within  its  mother's  breast, 
And  pin'd  away  and  died, — yet  found  no  grave 
Beneath  the  church-yard  turf,  where  they  might  plant 
The  lowly  mound  with  flowers. 

What  lifts  the  heart 
Up  from  its  bitter  sadness  1     Hark  !  His  voice 
That  o'er  the  thundering  wave,  doth  pour  sublime 
Such  words,  as  arch  the  darkest  storm  of  life 
With  faith's  perennial  bow. 

Thou,  who  dost  speak 
Of  His  eternal  majesty,  who  bids 
Both  earth  and  sea  to  render  up  their  dead, 
Know'st  thou  how  soon  thy  tomb  shall  drink  the  tears 
Of  mourning  kindred  1     Thou,  who  thus  dost  stand 
Serene  in  youthful  beauty,  to  yield  back 
What  God  hath  claim'd, — know'st  thou  how  full  the  tide 
Of  sympathy,  that  now  thy  bosom  thrills 
For  strangers, — in  thine  own  paternal  halls 
Shall  flow  for  thee  1 

And  if  thou  could's,  the  flush 
Would  not  have  faded  on  thy  glowing  cheek, 
For  thou  had'st  made  the  countenance  of  death 
Familiar  as  a  friend,  through  Him  who  pluck'd 
The  terror  from  his  frown,  and  from  his  sting 


274  MRS-  sigourney's  poems. 

The  venom.     At  thine  early  tomb  we  bend, 
Taking  that  deep  monition  to  our  souls, 
Which  through  embowering-  verdure  seems  to  sigh 
On  every  breeze — how  frail  is  earth's  best  hope, 
And  how  immortal  that,  which  roots  in  Heaven. 


"HINDER  THEM  NOT." 

u  '  Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me,  and  hinder  them  not.' 
But  you  hinder  them  by  your  example,  and  not  by  encouraging  them. 
Their  course  ought  to  be  upward  : — do  not  hinder  them." 

Rev.  Mr.  Taylor,  of  the  Scamens'  Chapel,  Boston. 

Lock'd  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth 

The  little  seed  its  heart  doth  stir, 
And  quickening  for  its  mystic  birth, 

Bursts  from  its  cleaving  sepulchre, 
The  aspiring  head,  the  unfolding  leaf, 

Exulting  in  their  joyous  lot, 
Turn  grateful  towards  the  Eye  of  Day, 

Hinder  them  not. 


Thus,  do  the  buds  of  being  rise 

From  cradle-dreams,  like  snow-drop  meek, 
While  through  their  mind-illumin'd  eyes 

A  deathless  principle  doth  speak, 
Already  toward  a  brighter  sphere 

They  turn,  from  this  terrestrial  spot, — 
Fond  parents  ! — florists  kind  and  dear  ! 

Hinder  them  not. 


MRS.    SIGOUBNEy's   POEMS.  275 

Hinder  them  not ! — even  Love  may  spare 

In  blindness  many  a  wayward  shoot, — 
Or  weakly  let  the  usurping  tare 

Divert  the  health-stream  from  their  root. 
Oh  !  by  that  negligence  supine, 

Which  oft  the  fairest  page  doth  blot, 
And  shroud  the  ray  of  light  divine, 

Hinder  them  not. 

Cold  world  ! — the  teachings  of  thy  guile 

Awhile  from  these  young  hearts  restrain  ; 
Oh  spare  that  unsuspicious  smile 

Which  never  must  return  again ; 
By  folly's  wile,  by  falsehood's  kiss 

Too  soon  acquir'd,  too  late  forgot, 
By  sins  that  shut  the  soul  from  bliss, 
Hinder  them  not. 


SALE  OF  ARDENTSPIRITS  BY  CHRISTIANS. 

There  rose  a  cry  of  violence  and  pain, 
And  of  the  earth  I  ask'd — if  nought  remained 
Amid  her  moral  lazar-house,  to  cleanse 
This  vital  taint,  and  make  the  leprous  whole  ? 

— "  Yea,  she  replied,  The  followers  of  Christ  ! — 

They  are  the  purifying  principle, 

The  salt  of  earth." 

Then  I  beheld  a  flood 

Of  dark  corruption. — Far  and  wide  it  spread, — 

And  many  sported  on  its  fatal  brink, 


276  MRS.    SIGOUENEY'S   POEMS. 

Who  never  more  to  health  and  life  return'd  ; 

For  he  who  plung'd,  did  strait  forget  his  God, 

And  curse  himself,  and  die.     Amaz'd  I  marked 

Some,  who  profess'd  Christ's  name,  with  eager  toil 

Forming  new  channels  for  that  baleful  tide, 

As  if  to  irrigate  the  scorching  land 

With  Etna's  lava.     Not  of  the  dire  fount 

They  drank  themselves,  — nor  to  their  offspring  gave,- 

The  pestilential  draught ; — they  only  prest 

Its  venom  to  their  weaker  neighbor  s  lip 

Till  the  red  plague-spot  rankled  in  his  soul. — 

Still  from  their  household  altars,  morn  and  even, 

Duly  arose  the  prayer  that  God  would  change 

The  sinner's  heart, — and  turn  those  erring  feet 

Whose  steps  take  hold  on  hell. 

I  saw  the  shroud 
Of  pagan  darkness,  from  the  breast  of  earth 
Begin  to  melt  away. 

"  Who  holds  the  lamp, 
Thus  to  illume  thy  midnight  ?" — and  again 
She  answered,  "  Christians! — for  their  master  saith 
That  like  a  city  set  upon  a  hill, 
Their  light  may  not  be  hid." 

I  look'd, — and  lo  ! 
With  warm,  untiring  zeal,  they  spread  the  wing 
Of  strong  benevolence,  to  bear  the  gift 
Of  mercy  to  the  heathen, — and  to  fill 
The  idol-temples  with  Jehovah's  praise. 
Yet  some,  while  rnov'd  with  purpose  so  sublime, 
Expansive  and  seraphic, — strangely  sold 
A  poison  to  their  brother, — though  it  sent 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY's   POEMS.  277 

Despair's  cold  shuddering"  through  the  partner's  heart 
Who  wak'd  and  wept  for  him, — and  on  his  babes 
Entail'd  worse  woes  than  orphanage. 

Oh  Thou  ! 
Who  giv'st  us  skill  to  read  thy  holy  word, 
Grant  us  a  heart  to  understand  and  feel 
That  wealth  obtain'd  without  the  fear  of  God 
Is  but  an  ill  inheritance,  and  he 
Who  hasteth  to  be  rich,  doth  oft  times  fall 
'Mid  hurtful  snares,  that  drown  the  priceless  soul 
In  dark  perdition.     Break  the  dangerous  chain 
Of  Mammon  from  our  spirit,  that  in  love 
To  all  mankind,  as  well  as  love  to  Thee, 
With  hands  outstretch'd  to  pluck  our  brother's  feet 
From  the  destroyer's  net,  and  with  the  prayer, 
The  never-ceasing  prayer  of  penitence 
For  our  own  errors,  we  may  safely  pass 
On  through  this  evil  world,  to  thy  right  hand. 


HYMN  FOR  A  CHARITABLE  ASSOCIATION. 

Widow  !  long  estrang'd  from  gladness, 

In  thy  cell  so  lonely  made, 
Where  chill  Penury's  cloud  of  sadness 

Adds  to  grief  a  sterner  shade, 
Look  !  the  searching  eye  hath  found  thee, 

Pitying  hearts  confess  thy  claim, 
Bounteous  spirits  shed  around  thee 

Blessings  in  a  Saviour's  name. 
24 


278  MRS-  sigourney's  poems. 

Orphan  !  in  despondence  weeping, 

Crush'd  by  want  and  misery  dire, 
Or  on  lowly  pallet  sleeping, 

Dreaming  of  thy  buried  sire, 
Hands  like  his,  combine  to  rear  thee, 

Stranger-arms  are  round  thee  cast, 
And  a  Father  ever  near  thee, 

Fits  the  shorn  lamb  to  the  blast. 

Brethren  !  by  the  precious  token 

Which  the  sons  of  mercy  wear, 
By  the  vows  we  here  have  spoken, 

Grav'd  in  truth,  and  seal'd  with  prayer, 
Penury's  pathway  we  will  brighten, 

Misery  with  compassion  meet, 
And  the  heart  of  sorrow  lighten, 

Till  our  own  shall  cease  to  beat. 


THOUGHTS  ON  RETURNING  FROM  CHURCH. 

The  listening  ear  the  hallow'd  strain 
Has  caught  from  lips  devoutly  wise, 

But  what  my  heart  has  been  thy  gain 
From  all  these  precepts  of  the  skies'? 

Contrition's  lesson  have  they  taught? 

The  oft-forgotten  vow  renew'd  1 
Or  gently  touch'd  thy  glowing  thought 

With  the  blest  warmth  of  gratitude  ? 


MRS.    SIGOUENEV'S   POEMS.  279 

Say,  from  the  low  delights  of  time 

Thy  best  affections  have  they  won  ? 
Inciting-  thee  with  zeal  sublime 

Earth's  fleeting  pilgrimage  to  run  1 

If  not,  how  vain  the  band  to  join 

Who  toward  the  house  of  God  repair, 
To  pour  the  song  of  praise  divine 

Or  kneel  in  pharasaic  prayer  ; 

And  ah  !  how  vain  when  Death's  cold  hand 

Shall  sternly  reap  time's  ripen'd  field, 
How  worse  than  vain  when  all  must  stand 

The  last,  the  dread  account  to  yield. 


ON  READING  THE  "  REMAINS"  OF  REV.  EDMUND 
D.  GRIFFIN. 

Son  of  Wyoming's  classic  vale, 

By  early  Genius  strongly  mov'd, 
Whom  lofty  science  bow'd  to  hail, 

And  virtue  from  the  cradle  lov'd, 
Thou  of  high  soul,  and  radiant  brow 
Of  manly  beauty,  where  art  thou  ? 

Not  near  a  mother's  cherish'd  side, 

Not  by  a  sister's  love  carest, 
Nor  listening  to  the  parent-guide, 

Nor  in  fraternal  converse  blest, 
Still  doth  thy  home  the  vestments  wear 
Of  Eden, — but  thou  art  not  there. 


280  MRS.    SIGOURNEy's    POEMS. 

Not  at  Mount  Cenis'  stormy  base, 

Where  crags  on  crags  stupendous  hurl'd, 

And  tower-crovvn'd  cliffs  portentous  trace 
The  ruins  of  an  elder  world, 

Where  keenly  gaz'd  thy  charmed  eye 

On  Nature's  cloud-wreath'd  majesty. 

Not  at  her  feet, — that  Queen  of  Earth, 
Who  left  unsceptred  and  alone, 

By  mighty  shades  of  warrior-birth, 

Half  slumbering  on  her  seven-hilPd  throne, 

Still  proudly  takes,  with  palsied  hand, 

The  homage  of  each  pilgrim-land. 

Not  where  thou  best  didst  love  to  stand, 
A  herald  for  thy  Saviour's  name, 

Dispensing  to  a  listening  band 

High  words  of  eloquence  and  flame, 

Such  as  do  burst  from  lip  to  soul, 

Touch'd  by  the  "  altar's  living  coal." 

Yet,  what  are  all  the  classic  springs 
That  murmur  thro'  their  ancient  grove, 

Or  all  the  pomp  that  Nature  brings 
To  wake  the  young  enthusiast's  love, 

Or  fond  Affection's  strongest  tie, 

Weigh'd  with  their  bliss  in  Christ  who  die  ? 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS.  281 


THE  BRIDE. 

I  came,  but  she  was  gone. 

In  her  fair  home, 
There  lay  her  lute,  just  as  she  touch'd  it  last, 
At  summer  twilight,  when  the  woodbine  cups 
FilPd  with  pure  fragrance.     On  her  favorite  seat 
Lay  the  still  open  work-box,  and  that  book 
Which  last  she  read,  its  pencil 'd  margin  mark'd 
By  an  ill-quoted  passage, — trac'd,  perchance, 
With  hand  unconscious,  while  her  lover  spake 
That  dialect,  which  brings  forgetfulness 
Of  all  beside.     It  was  the  cherish'd  home, 
Where  from  her  childhood,  she  had  been  the  star 
Of  hope  and  joy. 

I  came, — and  she  was  gone. 
Yet  I  had  seen  her  from  the  altar  led, 
With  silvery  veil  but  slightly  swept  aside, 
The  fresh,  young  rose-bud  deepening  in  her  cheek, 
And  on  her  brow  the  sweet  and  solemn  thought 
Of  one  who  gives  a  priceless  gift  away. 
And  there  was  silence  mid  the  gather'd  throng. 
The  stranger,  and  the  hard  of  heart,  did  draw 
Their  breath  supprest,  to  see  the  mother's  lip 
Turn  ghastly  pale,  and  the  majestic  sire 
Shrink  as  with  smother'd  sorrow,  when  he  gave 
His  darling  to  an  untried  guardianship, 
And  to  a  far  off  clime. 

Haply  his  thought 
Travers'd  the  grass-grown  prairies,  and  the  shore 
Of  the  cold  lakes  ;  or  thos^  o'erhanging  cliffs 
24* 


MBS.    SIGOURNEY  S    POEMS. 


And  pathless  mountain  tops,  that  rose  to  bar 
Her  log-rear'd  mansion  from  the  anxious  eye 
Of  kindred  and  of  friend.     Even  triflers  felt 
How  strong-  and  beautiful  is  woman's  love, 
That  taking  in  its  hand  its  thornless  joys, 
The  tenderest  melodies  of  tuneful  years, 
Yea  !  and  its  own  life  also, — lays  them  all, 
Meek  and  unblenching-,  on  a  mortal's  breast 
Reserving  nought,  save  that  unspoken  hope 
Which  hath  its  root  in  God. 

Mock  not  with  mirth, 
A  scene  like  this,  ye  laughter-loving-  ones  ; — 
The  licens'd  jester's  lip,  the  dancer's  heel — 
What  do  they  here  ] 

Joy,  serious  and  sublime, 
Such  as  doth  nerve  the  energies  of  prayer, 
Should  swell  the  bosom,  when  a  maiden's  hand, 
Fill'd  with  life's  dewy  flow'rets,  girded  on 
That  harness,  which  the  ministry  of  Death 
Alone  unlooseth,  but  whose  fearful  power 
May  stamp  the  sentence  of  Eternity. 


DEPARTURE  OF  MISSIONARIES  FOR  CEYLON. 

Wave,  wide  Ceylon,  your  foliage  fair, 
Your  spicy  fragrance  freely  strew  ; 

See,  Ocean's  threatening  surg-e  we  dare, 
To  bear  salvation's  gift  to  you. 


MRS.   SIGOUENEY'S   POEMS.  283 

Hail !  ye  who  long  with  faithful  hand 

Have  fondly  tili'd  that  favor'd  soil, 
We  come,  we  come,  a  brother-band 

To  share  the  burden  of  your  toil. 

Land  of  our  birth  !  we  may  not  stay 

The  ardor  of  hearts  to  tell, 
Friends  of  our  youth  !  we  dare  not  say 

How  deep  within  our  souls  ye  dwell. 

But  when  the  dead,  both  small  and  great 

Shall  stand  before  the  Judge's  seat, 
When  sea  and  sky  and  earthly  state 

All  like  a  baseless  vision  fleet, 

The  hope  that  then  some  heathen  eye 
Thro'  us,  an  angel's  glance  may  raise, 

Bids  us  to  vanquish  nature's  tie, 
And  turn  her  parting  tear  to  praise. 


CHRISTIAN  SETTLEMENTS  IN  AFRICA. 

Winds  !  what  have  ye  gather'd  from  Afric's  strand, 
As  ye  swept  the  breadth  of  that  fragrant  land  ] 
The  breath  of  the  spice-bud,  the  rich  perfume 
Of  balm  and  of  gum  and  of  flowrets  bloom  ! 
"  We  have  gather'd  nought,  save  a  pagan  prayer, 
And  the  stifling  sigh  of  the  heart's  despair." 


284  MRS«  sigoubney's  poems. 

Waves  !  what  have  ye  heard  on  that  ancient  coast 
Where  Egypt  the  might  of  her  fame  did  boast, 
Where  the  statue  of  Memnon  saluted  the  morn, 
And  the  pyramids  tower  in  their  giant  scorn  1 
"  We  have  heard  the  curse  of  the  slave-ships  crew, 
And  the  shriek  of  the  chained  as  the  shores  withdrew.' 

Stars  !  what  have  ye  seen  with  the  glancing  eye 
From  your  burning  thrones  in  the  sapphire-sky  ! 
"  We  have  mark'd  young  hope  as  it  brightly  glow'd, 
On  Afric's  breast  whence  the  blood-drop  flow'd, 
And  we  chanted  the  hymn  which  we  sang  at  first, 
When  the  sun  from  the  midnight  of  chaos  burst." 


DEATH. 

"  Death  is  the  night  of  that  day  which  is  given  us  to  work  in. 
Happy  the  soul  which  Death  finds  rich,  not  in  gold,  furniture,  learn- 
ing, reputation,  or  barren  purposes  and  desires,  hut  in  good  works." 

Bishop  Wilson's  Sacra  Privata. 

Chill'd  by  the  piercing  blast, 

Or  faint  with  vertic  heat, 
The  wearied  laborer  hails  the  night, 

And  finds  its  slumber  sweet, 
While  they  whom  idle  years 

Of  luxury  impair, 
Toss  on  the  restless  couch,  or  meet 

The  dream  of  terror  there. 

The  rich  man  moves  in  pomp, 

To  him  the  world  is  dear, 
And  every  treasure  twists  a  tie 

T    bind  him  stronger  here, 


MBS.   SIGOUHNEy's    POEMS.  295 

But  he  whose  only  gold 

Is  in  the  conscience  stor'd 
Is  richer  at  the  hour  of  death 

Than  with  the  miser's  hoard. 

When  the  short  day  of  life 

With  all  its  work  is  done, 
The  faithful  servant  of  the  cross 

Doth  hail  the  setting  sun, 
But  they  who  waste  their  breath, 

Dread  the  accusing  tomb, 
And  the  time-killer  flies  from  death 

As  from  a  murderer's  doom. 

So  give  us,  Lord,  to  find 

When  earth  shall  pass  away, 
That  Sabbath-evening  of  the  mind 

Which  crowns  a  well-spent  day, 
That  entering  to  thy  rest, 

Where  toils  and  cares  are  o'er, 
We,  with  the  myriads  of  the  blest, 

May  praise  Thee,  evermore. 


286  MRS.  sigourney's  poems. 


MIDNIGHT  MUSIC. 

"The  Rev.  Mr.  George  Herbet,  in  one  of  his  walks  to  Salisbury, 
to  join  a  musical  society,  saw  a  poor  man,  with  a  poorer  horse,  who 
had  fallen  under  its  load.  Putting  oft  his  canonical  coat,  he  helped 
the  poor  mar.  to  unload,  and  raise  the  horse,  and  alterwards  to  load 
him  again.  The  poor  man  blessed  him  lor  it  and  he  blessed  the  poor 
man.  And  so  like  was  he  to  the  good  Samaritan,  that  he  gave  him 
money  to  refresh  both  himself  aid  his  horse,  admonishing  him  also, 
1  if  he  loved  himself,  to  be  merciful  to  his  beast.'  Then,  coming  to 
his  musical  friends,  at  Salisbury,  they  began  to  wonder,  that  Mr. 
George  Herbert,  who  used  to  be  always  so  trim  and  clean,  should 
come  into  that  company,  so  soiled  and  discomposed.  Yet,  when  he 
told  them  the  r<  ason,  one  of  them  said,  that  he  had  'disparaged  him- 
self, by  so  mean  an  employment. '  But  his  answer  was,  that  the 
thought  of  what  he  had  done,  would  prove  music  to  him  at  midnight, 
and  that  the  omission  of  it,  would  have  made  discord  in  his  conscience, 
whenever  he  should  pass  that  place.  '  For  if,  said  he,  I  am  bound  to 
pray  for  all  that  are  in  distress,  I  am  surely  bound,  so  far  as  is  in  my 

{>ower,  to  practise  what  1  pray  for.  And  though  I  do  not  wish  for  the 
ike  occasion,  every  day,  yet  would  I  not  willingly  pass  one  day  of  my 
life,  without  comforting  a  sad  soul,  or  showing  mercy,  and  I  praise 
God,  for  this  opportunity.     So  now  let  us  tune  our  instruments.'  " 

What  maketh  music,  when  the  bird 

Doth  hush  its  merry  lay  1 
And  the  sweet  spirit  of  the  flowers 

Hath  sigh'd  itself  away  ? 
What  maketh  music  when  the  frost 

Enchains  the  murmuring-  rill, 
And  every  song  that  summer  woke 

In  winter's  trance  is  still  1 

What  maketh  music  when  the  winds 

To  wild  encounter  rise, 
When  Ocean  strikes  his  thunder-gong, 

And  the  rent  cloud  replies  1 
While  no  adventurous  planet  dares 

The  midnight  arch  to  deck, 
And  in  its  startled  dream,  the  babe 

Doth  clasp  its  mother's  neck  ] 


MRS.   SIGOURNEy's   POEMS.  287 

And  when  the  fiercer  storms  of  fate 

Do  o'er  the  pilgrim  sweep, 
And  earthquake-voices  claim  the  hopes 

He  treasur'd  long  and  deep, 
When  loud  the  threatening- 'passions  roar 

Like  lions  in  their  den 
And  vengeful  tempests  lash  the  shore, 

What  maketh  music  then  1 

The  deed  to  humble  virtue  born, 

Which  nursing  memory  taught 
To  shun  a  boastful  world's  applause, 

And  love  the  lowly  thought, 
This  builds  a  cell  within  the  heart, 

Amid  the  weeds  of  care, 
And  tuning  high  its  heaven-struck  harp, 

Doth  make  sweet  music  there. 


FORBEARANCE    WITH  FRAILTY. 

Scorn  not  the  sinner,  though  her  name 
May  dregs  of  deep  abhorrence  stir, 

And  though  the  kindling  blush  of  shame 
Burns  on  young  Virtue's  cheek  for  her. 

Judge  not,  unless  thy  lip  can  tell 

What  wily  tempters,  fierce  and  strong 

Did  the  unguarded  soul  propel 
To  ruin's  hidden  gulf  along. 


288  MRS-  sigourxey's  poems. 

The  downward  road,  how  fearful  steep, 
The  upward  cliff,  how  hard  to  climb, 
He  only  knows,  whose  records  keep 

The  nameless  countless  grades  of  crime. 

Scorn  not  the  sinner,  thou  whose  heart 
In  purpose  pure  is  garner'd  strong; 

Claims  penitence  with  thee  no  part  1 
Doth  pride  to  mortal  man  belong  1 

By  all  thy  follies  unforgiven, 

Wert  thou  at  death's  dread  hour  accus'd 
Even  thou  might  at  the  gate  of  heaven, 

In  terror  knock,  and  be  refus'd. 


BURIAL  OF  ASHMUN,  AT  NEW-HAVEN,  AUG.  1828. 

Whence  is  yon  sable  bier  ? 

Why  move  the  throng  so  slow  1 
Why  doth  that  lonely  mother's  tear 

In  bursting  anguish  flow  1 
Why  is  the  sleeper  laid 

To  rest  in  manhood's  pride  1 
How  gain'd  his  cheek  such  pallid  shade  ? 

I  ask'd,  but  none  replied. 

Then  spake  the  hoarse  wave  low, 

The  vexing  billow  sigh'd, 
And  blended  sounds  of  bitter  woe 

Came  o'er  the  echoing  tide, 


MRS.    SIGOURNEy's   POEMS.  289 

I  heard  sad  Afric  mourn 

Upon  her  sultry  strand, 
A  buckler  from  her  bosom  torn, 

An  anchor  from  her  hand. 

Beneath  her  palm-trees'  shade, 

At  every  cabin-door, 
There  rose  a  weeping  for  the  friend 

Who  must  return  no  more, 
Her  champion  when  the  blast 

Of  ruthless  war  swept  by, 
Her  guardian,  when  the  storm  was  past, 

Her  guide  to  worlds  on  high. 

Rest !  wearied  form  of  clay  ! 

Frail,  ruin'd  temple,  rest  ! 
Thou  could'st  not  longer  bear  the  sway 

Of  an  immortal  guest, 
Where  high,  yon  classic  dome, 

Uprears  its  ancient  head, 
We  give  thee  welcome  to  a  home, 

Amid  our  noblest  dead. 

Spirit  of  Power,  pass  on  ! 

Thy  upward  wing  is  free, 
Earth  may  not  claim  thee  for  her  son, 

She  hath  no  charm  for  thee, 
Toil  might  not  bow  thee  down, 

Nor  Sorrow  check  thy  race, 
Nor  Pleasure  steal  thy  birthright  crown, 

Go  to  thine  own  blest  place. 
25 


290  MRS.    SIGOURNEY's  POEMS. 


TOMB  OF  A  YOUNG  FRIEND  AT  MOUNT  AUBURN. 

I  do  remember  thee. 

There  was  a  strain 
Of  thrilling  music,  a  soft  breath  of  flowers 
Telling  of  summer  to  a  festive  throng, 
That  fill'd  the  lighted  halls.     And  the  sweet  smile 
That  spoke  their  welcome,  the  high-warbled  lay 
Swelling  with  rapture  through  a  parent's  heart, 
Were  thine. 

Time  wav'd  his  noiseless  wand  awhile, 
And  in  thy  cherish'd  home  once  more  I  stood, 
Amid  those  twin'd  and  cluster'd  sympathies 
Where  the  rich  blossoms  of  thy  heart  sprang  forth, 
Like  the  Moss  Rose.     Where  was  the  voice  of  song 
Pouring  out  glad  and  glorious  melody  ? — 
But  when  I  ask'd  for  thee,  they  took  me  where 
A  hallow 'd  mountain  wrapt  its  verdant  head 
In  changeful  drapery  of  woods  and  flowers 
And  silvery  streams,  and  where  thou  erst  didst  love, 
Musing  to  walk,  and  lend  a  serious  ear 
To  the  wild  melody  of  birds  that  hung 
Their  unharm'd  dwellings  'mid  its  woven  bowers. 
Yet  here  and  there,  involv'd  in  curtaining  shades 
Uprose  those  sculpur'd  monuments,  that  bear 
The  ponderous  warnings  of  Eternity. 
So,  thou  hast  past  the  unreturning  gate, 
Where  dust  with  dust  doth  linger,  and  gone  down 
In  all  the  beauty  of  thy  blooming  years 
To  this  most  sacred  city  of  the  dead. 
The  granite  obelisk  and  the  pale  flower 


MBS.    SIGOURNEY'S  POEMS.  291 

Reveal  thy  couch.     Fit  emblems  of  the  frail, 
And  the  immortal. 

But  that  bitter  grief 
Which  holds  stern  vigil  o'er  the  mouldering  clay, 
Keeping  long  night-watch  with  its  sullen  lamp 
Had  fled  thy  tomb,  and  Faith  did  lift  its  eyo 
Full  of  sweet  tears  :  for  when  warm  tear-drops  gush 
From  the  pure  memories  of  a  love  that  wrought 
For  other's  happiness  and  rose  to  take 
Its  own  full  share  of  happiness  above, 
Are  they  not  sweet  1 


NAHANT. 

When  fervid  summer  crisps  the  shrinking  nerve, 
And  every  prismed  rock  doth  catch  the  ray 
As  in  a  burning  glass,  'tis  wise  to  seek 
This  city  of  the  wave.     For  here  the  dews 
With  which  Hygeia  feeds  the  flower  of  life 
Are  ever  freshening  in  their  secret  founts. 
Here  may'st  thou  talk  with  Ocean,  and  no  ear 
Of  gossip  islet  on  thy  words  shall  feed. 
Send  thy  free  thought  upon  the  winged  winds, 
That  sweep  the  castles  of  an  older  world, 
And  what  shall  bar  it  from  their  ivyed  heights  ] 
— 'Tis  well  to  talk  with  Ocean.     Man  may  cast 
His  pearl  of  language  on  unstable  hearts, 
And  thriftless  sower  !  reap  the  winds  again. 
But  thou,  all-conquering  element,  dost  grave 


292  MRS.   SIGOURNEY'S    POEMS. 

Strong-  characters  upon  the  eternal  rock, 
Furrowing  the  brow  that  holdeth  speech  with  thee. 
Musing  beneath  yon  awful  cliffs,  the  soul, 
That  brief  shell-gatherer  on  the  shore  of  time, 
Feels  as  a  brother  to  the  drop  that  hangs 
One  moment  trembling  on  thy  crest,  and  sinks 
Into  the  bosom  of  the  boundless  wave. 
— And  see,  outspreading  her  broad,  silver  scroll, 
Forth  comes  the  moon,  that  meek  ambassador, 
Bearing  Heaven's  message  to  the  mighty  surge. 
Yet  he,  who  listeneth  to  its  hoarse  reply, 
Echoing  in  anger  through  the  channel'd  depths, 
Will  deem  its  language  all  too  arrogant, 
And  Earth's  best  dialect  too  poor  to  claim 
Benignant  notice  from  the  star-pav'd  skies, 
And  man  too  pitiful,  to  lift  himself 
In  the  frail  armor  of  his  moth-crush'd  pride, 
Amid  o'ershadowing  Nature's  majesty. 


THE  CONQUERORS   OF  SPAIN. 

"There  are  still  found  in  South  America,  some  of  the  first  conquer- 
ors of  the  New- World,  who  at  the  commencement  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  in  searching  for  the  rich  mines  that  had  been  described  to 
them,  took  a  long  and  circuitous  route  among  the  mountains  of  Peru, 
and  perished  by  the  cold,  which  at  once  petrified  and  preserved  them." 

Bomare. 


Why  choose  ye  out  such  dizzy  height 

Amid  yon  drear  domain, 
Your  ice-bound  cell  forever  white, 

Ye  haughty  men  of  Spain  1 


MBS.    SIGOURNEY's    POEMS.  293 

The  Condor  on  his  mighty  wing 

Doth  scale  your  cloud-wreath'd  walls, 
But  to  his  scream  their  caverns  ring, 

As  from  the  cliff  he  falls. 

The  poor  Peruvian  scans  with  dread 

Your  fix'd  and  stony  eye, 
The  timid  child  averts  his  head, 

And  faster  hurries  by, 
They  from  the  fathers  of  the  land 

Have  heard  your  withering  tale, 
Nor  spare  to  mock  the  tyrant  band 

Transform'd  to  statues  pale. 

Ye  came  to  grasp  the  Indian's  gold, 

Ye  scorn'd  his  feathery  dart, 
But  Andes  rose,  that  monarch  old, 

And  took  his  children's  part, 
And  with  that  strange  embalming  art 

Which  ancient  Egypt  knew, 
He  threw  his  frost-chain  o'er  your  heart, 

As  to  his  breast  ye  grew. 

He  chain'd  you  while  strong  manhood's  tide 

Did  through  your  bosoms  roll, 
Upon  your  lip  the  curl  of  pride, 

And  avarice  in  your  soul, 
Strange  slumber  stole  with  mortal  pang 

Across  the  frozen  plain, 
And  thunder-blasts  your  sentence  rang, 

"  Sleep  and  ne'er  wake  again." 
25* 


^94  -MAS-    SIGOUBNEVr's   POEMS. 

Uprose  the  moon,  the  Queen  of  night 

Danc'd  with  the  Protean  tide, 
And  years  fulfill'd  their  measur'd  flight, 

And  ripening  ages  died, 
Slow  centuries  in  oblivion's  flood 

Sank  like  the  tossing  wave, 
But  changeless  and  transfix'd  ye  stood, 

The  dead  without  a  grave. 

The  infant  wrought  its  flowery  span 

On  Love's  maternal  breast, 
And  whiten'd  to  a  hoary  man, 

And  laid  him  down  to  rest, 
Race  after  race,  with  weary  moan 

Went  to  their  dreamless  sleep, 
While  ye,  upon  your  feet  of  stone, 

Perpetual  penance  keep. 

How  little  deem'd  ye,  when  ye  hurl'd 

Your  challenge  o'er  the  main, 
And  vow'd  to  teach  a  new-born  world 

The  vassalage  of  Spain, 
Thus  till  the  doom's-day  cry  of  pain 

Shall  rive  your  prison-rock, 
To  bear  upon  your  brow  like  Cain, 

A  mark  that  all  might  mock. 

But  long  from  high  Castilian  bowers 
Look'd  forth  the  inmates  fair, 

And  gave  the  tardy  midnight  hours 
To  watching  and  despair, 


MBS.    SIGOUKNEY's    POEMS.  295 

Oft  starting  as  some  light  guitar 

Its  breath  of  sweetness  shed, 
Yet  lord  and  lover  linger'd  far 

Till  life's  brief  vision  fled. 

Their  vaunted  tournament  is  o'er, 

Their  knightly  lance  in  rest, 
Ambition's  fever  burns  no  more 

Within  their  conquering  breast, 
For  high  between  the  earth  and  skies, 

Check'd  in  their  venturous  path, 
A  fearful  monument  they  rise, 

Of  Andes'  vengeful  wrath. 


THE  NEW-ZEALAND  MISSIONARY. 

"  We  cannot  let  him  go.  He  says  he  is  going  to  return  to  England 
—  the  ship  is  here  to  take  him  rw.iy.  Bnt  no, — we  will  keep  him 
and  make  him  our  sla\e  ;  not  our  slave  to  fetch  wood  and  draw  water 
but  our  talking-slave.  Yes, — he  shall  be  our  slave,  to  talk  to  and  to 
teach  us.  Keep  him  we  will."—  Speech  of  Rtv.  Mr.  Yates,  at  the  An- 
niversary of  the  Church  Missionary  Society,  London,  May,  1835. 

'Twas  night,  and  in  his  tent  he  lay, 

Upon  a  heathen  shore, 
While  wildly  on  his  wakeful  ear 

The  ocean's  billows  roar  ; 
'Twas  midnight,  and  the  war-club  rang 

Upon  his  threshold  stone, 
And  heavy  feet  of  savage  men 

Came  fiercely  tramping  on. 

Loud  were  their  tones  in  fierce  debate, 
The  chieftain  and  his  clan, 


296  MES-  sigourkey's  poems. 

«    He  shall  not  go,— he  shall  not  go, 

That  missionary  man  ; 
For  him  the  swelling  sail  doth  spread, 

The  tall  ship  ride  the  wave, 
But  we  will  chain  him  to  our  coast, 

Yes,  he  shall  be  our  slave  : 

Not  from  the  groves  our  wood  to  bear, 

Nor  water  from  the  vale, 
Not  in  the  battle-front  to  stand, 

Where  proudest  foe-men  quail, 
Nor  the  great  war-canoe  to  guide, 

Where  crystal  streams  turn  red ; 
But  he  shall  be  our  slave  to  break 

The  soul  its  living  bread." 

Then  slowly  peer'd  the  rising  moon, 

Above  the  forest-height, 
And  bathed  each  cocoa's  leafy  crown 

In  tides  of  living  light : 
To  every  cabin's  grassy  thatch 

A  gift  of  beauty  gave, 
And  with  a  crest  of  silver  cheer'd 

Pacific's  sullen  wave. 

But  o'er  that  gentle  scene,  a  shout 

In  sudden  clangor  came, 
"  Come  forth,  come  forth,  thou  man  of  God, 

And  answer  to  our  claim  :" 
So  down  to  those  dark  island-men, 

He  bow'd  him  as  he  spake, 
"  Behold,  your  servant  will  I  be 

For  Christ,  my  Master's  sake." 


MBS.    SIGOUBXEY'S    POEMS.  297 


"  GO,  TELL  PETER." 

"  Go  your  way, — tell  his  disciples,  and  Peter,  that  he  goeth  before 
you,  into  Galilee."  St.  Mark  xvi.  7. 

But  wherefore  Peter?     He  whose  pride 

Dream'd  on  the  monarch  sea  to  tread, 
Whose  traitor  tongue  with  oaths  denied 

His  Master,  in  the  hour  of  dread, 
Wherefore  to  him  in  accents  sweet, 

Such  words  of  heavenly  solace  bear, 
And  not  to  those  whose  firmer  feet 

Indignant  foil'd  the  Tempter's  snare  1 

Hark  !  from  a  risen  Saviour's  tomb, 

The  guardian  seraph  makes  reply, 
And  sweet  amid  sepulchral  gloom 

Flows  forth  the  language  of  the  sky, 
To  teach  us  how  the  flame  of  love, 

With  silent  ministry  sublime, 
May  in  repentant  bosoms  move, 

And  neutralize  a  mass  of  crime. 

So  when  some  erring  brother  mourns, 

His  recreant  course,  with  grief  severe, 
Haste,  and  with  tender  accent  breathe 

The  "  Go,  tell  Peter"  in  his  ear, 
For  angels  soothe  the  pangs  of  woe 

That  swell  when  contrite  tears  are  shed, 
And  pure  as  light,  the  pearl  may  glow 

That  darkest  slept  in  ocean's  bed. 


298  MRS.   SIGOURNEY'S  POEMS. 


FELICIA  HEMANS. 

May,  1835. 

Nature  doth  mourn  for  thee. 

There  is  no  need 
For  Man  to  strike  his  plaintive  lyre  and  fail, 
As  fail  he  must,  if  he  attempt  thy  praise. 
The  little  plant  that  never  sang  before, 
Save  one  sad  requiem,  when  its  blossoms  fell, 
Sighs  deeply  through  its  drooping  leaves  for  thee, 
As  for  a  florist  fallen.     The  ivy  wreath'd 
Round  the  grey  turrets  of  a  buried  race, 
And  the  tall  palm  that  like  a  prince  doth  rear 
Its  diadem  'neath  Asia's  burning  sky, 
With  their  dim  legends  blend  thy  hallow'd  name. 
Thy  music,  like  baptismal  dew,  did  make 
Whate'er  it  touch'd  most  holy.     The  pure  shell, 
Laying  its  pearly  lip  on  Ocean's  floor, 
The  cloister'd  chambers,  where  the  sea-gods  sleep, 
And  the  un fathom 'd  melancholy  main, 
Lament  for  thee,  through  all  the  sounding  deeps. 
Hark  !  from  the  snow-breasted  Himmaleh,  to  where 
Snowdon  doth  weave  his  coronet  of  cloud, 
From  the  scath'd  pine  tree,  near  the  red  man's  hut, 
To  where  the  everlasting  banian  builds 
Its  vast  columnac  temple,  comes  a  moan 
For  thee,  whose  ritual  made  each  rocky  height 
An  altar,  and  each  cottage-home,  the  haunt 
Of  Poesy. 


MES.    SIGOURNEY'S   POEMS.  299 

Yea,  thou  didst  find  the  link 
That  joins  mute  Nature  to  ethereal  mind, 
And  make  that  link  a  melody. 

The  couch 
Of  thy  last  sleep,  was  in  the  native  clime 
Of  song  and  eloquence  and  ardent  soul, 
Spot  fitly  chosen  for  thee.     Perchance,  that  isle 
So  lov'd  of  favoring  skies,  yet  bann'd  by  fate, 
Might  shadow  forth  thine  own  unspoken  lot. 
For  at  thy  heart,  the  ever-pointed  thorn 
Did  gird  itself,  until  the  life-stream  ooz'd 
In  gushes  of  such  deep  and  thrilling  song, 
That  angels  poising  on  some  silver  cloud 
Might  linger  'mid  the  errands  of  the  skies, 
And  listen,  all  unblam'd. 

How  tenderly 
Doth  Nature  draw  her  curtain  round  thy  rest, 
And  like  a  nurse,  with  finger  on  her  lip, 
Watch  lest  some  step  disturb  thee,  striving  still 
From  other  touch,  thy  sacred  harp  to  guard. 
Waits  she  thy  waking,  as  the  Mother  waits 
For  some  pale  babe,  whose  spirit  sleep  hath  stolen 
And  laid  it  dreaming  on  the  lap  of  Heaven  7 
We  say  not  thou  art  dead.     We  dare  not.     No. 
For  every  mountain  stream  and  shadowy  dell 
Where  thy  rich  harpings  linger,  would  hurl  back 
The  falsehood  on  our  souls.     Thou  spak'st  alike 
The  simple  language  of  the  freckled  flower, 
And  of  the  glorious  stars.     God  taught  it  thee. 
And  from  thy  living  intercourse  with  man 
Thou  shalt  not  pass  away,  until  this  earth 
Drops  her  last  gem  into  the  doom's-day  flame. 


300  MRS-  sigourney's  poems. 

Thou  hast  but  taken  thy  seat  with  that  blest  choir, 
Whose  hymns  thy  tuneful  spirit  learn'd  so  well 
From  this  sublunar  terrace,  and  so  long 
Interpreted. 

Therefore,  we  will  not  say 
Farewell  to  thee  ;  for  every  unborn  age 
Shall  mix  thee  with  its  household  charities. 
The  sage  shall  greet  thee  with  his  benison, 
And  Woman  shrine  thee  as  a  vestal-flame 
In  all  the  temples  of  her  sanctity, 
And  the  young  child  shall  take  thee  by  the  hand 
And  travel  with  a  surer  step  to  Heaven. 


